


House Of Wren

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Series: The Wren Series [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: A little heterosexual sex, AU, Angst, M/M, Tissue Warning, a little shoot in later chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 13:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 41,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9608723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: What if Harold's love of fine clothes had edged out his passion for computers? Or, at least, competed with it. Despite tags of other relationships this is a Harold and John story.





	1. Six year-old Harold

**Author's Note:**

> I've given Harold's father the name Charles and invented his mother, Amelia.

Amelia Davidson sat up slowly in bed, grimacing at the ache in her side, feeling for the bedside lamp switch. She was still tired, so tired. She’d drawn the shades on the bright afternoon light before her nap. Night fell so quickly in winter it might not be as late as it seemed, but the darkness felt heavy as midnight.

Just an hour, she’d thought when she retreated to the bedroom. An hour’s rest and she could finish the job for Tara Bennett.

The heat was turned up but the old house had drafts and she couldn’t stay warm. There was nothing for it but to get out of the bed and move. The job couldn’t be put off … well it could be and the way she felt, it might have to be. It was just a hem. She should have been able to do it in her sleep. But it was the hem of the girl’s wedding gown, acres of unforgiving satin.

She squinted at the clock and her heart sank. She’d been asleep for hours. It was after six. Charlie would be home any minute, hungry. Harold, good lord, she thought, the way the boy had looked at her when she left the den. Those big blue eyes, too sweet, too knowing for a six year-old boy. He’d been watching her from his desk, across the room from her workspace, beyond the ironing board and her sewing machine. Homework. He’d probably long since finished it and was reading his field guide to birds. Other kids were nagging their parents for toys, bicycles; her boy wanted a book about birds and binoculars. So many years of loving him she’d be cheated of. It didn’t bear thinking about. She was still here, now.

She wrapped her robe around her, over the clothes she’d slept in and pressed her hand to the side where most of the pain was.

They were in the kitchen, her boys as she thought of them. Charlie was at the stove, already changed out of his work clothes, sleeves of an old flannel shirt folded up his forearms. She could smell the bay leaf, the sweet onion aroma of the leftover stew. Harold was carrying dishes to the table. Her heart ached with love for them and with sorrow for what she was putting them through.

She knew what kind of days her husband put in at the garage in town. It was a shiny new place that had put him out of business, then hired him on contract as a mechanic. Long days. The spaces the customers saw were almost luxurious but the hangar-like bays where he worked were poorly heated. Now here he was, putting dinner on the table.

Was there ever a man as thoughtful, as loving as Charlie Davidson. One of her girlfriends had shocked her, saying the old bachelor was so grateful to be married to a young woman like her, he’d do anything for her. She knew it wasn’t like that. Not like that at all. She was the grateful one. He’d given up years of a comfortable, self-sustained independence for her.

She froze at the sight of Tara Bennett’s wedding dress hanging on the back of the kitchen door in its enormous protective cover.

“I told him it was best not to touch it, Amy, but he said Miss Bennett would be coming to pick it up soon. He was real careful, I promise. Wrapped it in the tissue just like you do.”

“But it isn’t finished,” she said, despairing because she knew Harold was right, the woman would be there any minute to pick up the dress.

“Mom … it’s finished,” Harold said.

“No, baby, I slept too long, I never got to it.“

“I did it, mom,” Harold said.

"You finished it,” she said, trying not to show how much this upset her. She’d shown him how to make stitches when he was just a little guy, using a blunt needle and oversized thread, to satisfy his curiosity about her work. She pictured the mess of his childish stitching like a Frankenstein border on the beautiful dress, the horror on her client’s face.

“Better take a look, Amy. I’m sure you can fix it.” Charlie was frowning but his eyes begged her not to get angry with her son.

She unzipped the heavy plastic of the garment bag and saw Charlie wasn’t wrong about how nicely the boy had wrapped the gown. She fished through the sea of satin for the edge of the dress.

It was … perfect. Amelia stared, almost uncomprehending. Tiny, perfect, invisible stitches, so uniform it was uncanny. She scanned the entire hem which went on for yards and yards without blemish. Impossible.

“You … did a good job, baby,” she said, her voice nearly breaking. She looked up to see her husband ruffle the boy’s hair. The man had no idea what his son had accomplished.

Tara Bennett was full of apologies for interrupting their evening, and overflowing with gratitude for Amelia taking the job on so soon after coming home from the hospital. Her entrance and quick exit left a chill in the air and a little puddle from her snowy shoes by the back door.

“Harold,” Charlie said, when they were all seated at the table. “You helped your mom, but you shouldn’t touch her things without permission, without her knowing.”

“It’s okay, Charles,” she said. She looked at her beautiful boy, his little glasses steaming up from the bowl of stew in front of him. For years she’d wondered how she and her husband had produced such a brilliant child. Everything came early and easily to him. She’d almost become used to how bright he was.

But this physical dexterity … this was something new that astonished her. The boy had no interest in sports but she thought he could probably excel at any game he chose. His motor control was exceptional. To wield a needle and thread that way, it shouldn’t be possible for a six year-old boy. Her husband didn’t realize just what an amazing feat the child had performed. She’d say something to him later, maybe; she didn’t want to make Harold uncomfortable by drawing attention.

“Sorry about the leftovers, boys. I know I promised chicken.”

“Stew’s always better after it sits a while. Right, Harold?”

“Right, dad.” He looked happy now, relieved, and she melted when he met her gaze.


	2. Ten Year-Old Harold

The cancer didn’t take his mother all at once. For four years she fought it and there were periods of almost health. Then it moved swiftly at the end.

“She made it through such a hard winter, Charlie. It seems so wrong.”

The woman whose name used to be Tara Bennett, now Tara Markham, stood in front of them. Harold remembered her wedding dress and retreated into the circle of its hem, seeing the ratio of stitches per inch, feeling the diameter of smooth satin.

A hard winter — it still felt like winter in the funeral parlor. Darkness at the edges of the windowless room, heavy fabrics and waxy fake-looking flowers. There were a lot them arranged up front by the casket. Harold had looked at his mother there, longing for the sight of her. But it wasn’t her.

Was it still spring outside this dismal place? His mind strayed to an image of forsythia branches, yellow and green outside their house. She’d seen them. They were still there but she was gone.

This is hurting my dad, the thought broke through as another person stood in front of them to speak words about his mother. People that didn’t know her. What business was it of theirs to look at him and his father and say things about her, to make his father struggle not to cry. Harold felt his dad’s hand on his shoulder.

A lot of teachers had come. Some, he was curious to learn, knew his mother from before he was born. She’d taught at the high school, that much he knew. Home economics. Harold had heard the story of their meeting, his father showing up in a snow storm to work on a school bus stranded on the side of the road. She was on the bus, in charge of shepherding the students through the long winding after-school journey, through town and beyond.

Harold saw a glimpse of brown plaid, a girl in a dress in the crowd of black. He felt his father’s hand touch his head.

“There’s a little girl over there. You go talk to her, son.” His dad’s eyes said, I’ll be fine, I want you to go now.

Harold swallowed through his tight throat. He nodded and murmured, “Okay.”

It was pointless to protest, to explain that he and the girl wouldn’t have anything to say to each other, had nothing to do with one another. They weren’t even in the same grade; Harold now in fifth, practically grown up, and that girl was still in fourth. Grace Hendricks. Every kid in Lassiter knew every other one, at least by name. He had noticed her red hair in passing. He remembered seeing a drawing with her name on it, thumbtacked to a bulletin board. A drawing of birds. Not very realistic.

***

Grace didn’t care if she was the only non adult in attendance. Disgraceful that none of Harold’s classmates were here! She’d insisted on coming and had put up a fuss until her mother agreed to go, and to take her. It maddened Grace that she had nothing black to wear.

“Sweetheart, we’re not buying you a funeral dress,” her mother said. “Little girls don’t wear black dresses. As long as it isn’t something bright you’ll be fine.”

In her mind, Grace was wearing something black and somber. She and her mother sat at the back of the room for the service. She stared defiantly at anyone who looked her way, questioning her presence.

She could brave the sight of the dead person (she was pretty sure) because Harold had to brave it … and she was in love with him.

She’d loved him since first grade, since the day she sat behind him on the bus and heard him explain the difference between a House Sparrow and a Black-Throated Sparrow to the kid next to him. She’d noticed him first as he sat down, so pretty with his long silky bangs and big blue eyes. She approved of his glasses, little circles of gold. It was hearing him speak, though, the voice matching the face and the subject so sweet, that imprinted him on her heart. Grace often picked out men and boys she thought were cute but the “who” of who they were always spoiled what they looked like. Harold … was perfect.

“Hi Grace,” he said.

“Harold.” She was overcome by him approaching her, saying her name. So handsome in his black suit and tie. It burned her with shame that she was wearing a stupid school dress.

 

***

What an … odd girl. She was looking at him with such intensity, her small pink mouth compressing with distress.

“I know I’m wearing the wrong thing,” she blurted out.

“It’s okay,” he said, surprised to find himself in the role of giving comfort. Her cheeks were flushed, even her neck was getting bright red. All he could think to do was get her out of the room and find some water.


	3. Harold and Grace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hetero sex alert!

It took a while for Harold to realize he had a girlfriend. The consensus seemed to build around him, first one person, then another. Eventually, he stopped correcting them. When the boys in his seventh grade class started noticing girls and talking crudely about what they wanted to do to them, he was relieved that having Grace spared him. They either assumed he was getting what they wanted or observed the unspoken rule — when you went steady you stopped talking about that stuff.

He discovered it was really very nice to cuddle her, to hold her hand. She was small and her skin was very soft. The first time she kissed him it was a gentle pressure of her lips.

They were at an ice skating party. The old rink with its ancient zamboni had been popular with Lassiter’s teenagers for decades. One of Harold’s female classmates had surprised him by inviting him to her birthday skating party, and had written on the invitation in big curlicue letters, Bring your girlfriend!

Grace had been delighted. Not only had she agreed to go with him, she took over the task of picking out the gift for them to give, a stumbling block he hadn’t even considered.

Harold was content. He’d somehow made two girls happy with relative ease. Grace was a strong skater and it was a pleasure to glide on the ice with her. The kiss happened when they took a break for hot chocolate, sitting together in the cold on a rickety bench, warm from skating and the steaming drinks.

He’d set his cup down and looked to see if she’d finished hers. She had, but she’d already set her cup aside. There was a dreamy kind of look in her green eyes.

“I love you, Harold.” The words came out of her and the next thing he knew her gloved hands were on his shoulders and her lips were touching his.

She drew back and whispered, “No tongues, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, relieved.

Harold was thirteen, closing on fourteen for his first kiss.

He’d known in a general way and for a long time that he was probably not … heterosexual. As a voracious reader and an avid movie fan, it was clear to him from a very early age who it was in a book or a film that attracted his interest. It wasn’t an issue with any urgency. Like Scarlett O’Hara, he said to himself, “I’ll think about that tomorrow.” The idea of sex with anyone, male or female, was sort of unpleasant.

The time did arrive, with Grace, when kissing got more serious and arousing for both of them. It was around the same time, however, that Harold was stretched thin between his passion for computers, caring for his dad, and working part time weekends and after school at the dry cleaning shop in town. He assisted an elderly tailor named Benjamin Dashwood. Dashwood handled alterations and repairs in a workshop attached to the cleaners. Harold was able to attend to his own wardrobe, given discards and never-picked-up items he re-tailored for himself and he repaired a lot of his father’s clothing. The elderly tradesman was impressed by Harold’s skill and allowed him to handle complex customer jobs under his watchful eyes.

“You have a real talent for this, boy,” he told him. “Got something from both your folks, mechanics and sewing. Too bad it’s not much of a trade anymore. People buy new and toss the old things these days. They’re made too cheap to bother fixing. Speaking of your folks … it’s probably time to get home to your dad.” His eyes held the sympathy everyone’s did now when talking about his father.

At sixteen, Grace had her driver’s license and an old Chevy Cutlass that Harold and Charlie (on good days) would tinker with to keep it in top condition. Every day she drove to his house after school and kept an eye on Charlie while he was at work. His father’s memory was going fast. Even with Grace’s help it was becoming more and more difficult to manage. The sheriff who’d brought a confused Charles Davidson home, more than once, had helped Harold make arrangements with the nursing home, but he kept putting off the admission date.

“You’re so good to us, Grace,” he told her often.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” she always answered.

She was doing her homework at his kitchen table while his dad was eating dinner (that she’d made) and Harold thought, I should marry this girl. Of course they were too young for such a thing but he could see it was a possible future. People who knew them, even Grace’s parents, who Harold sensed privately wished she’d try dating other boys, spoke as though it was inevitable. Her mother and father liked him but her mother, especially, he knew, wished her daughter’s life was more carefree, that she wouldn’t marry young.

Next to Grace’s notebook was an open drawing pad, a quick sketch of Charlie with some color shading. Her pastels were boxed but there was a smudge of cerulean blue on her cheek where she must have touched her face before washing her hands.

Over the course of the years he’d come to appreciate her talent as an artist. She’d taught him to see how much a drawing or a painting could express, beyond the literal rendering of an image.

“There’s a big pot of spaghetti on the stove,” she said.

Harold met her eyes, to read her expression. A slow blink, a tight smile. That meant it hadn’t been a smooth afternoon for his dad.

It was time. Even with Grace’s help. It was time.

In the next room was his passion. His computer. No time for it now though it called to him. He was so close to making a breakthrough, he just needed more power.

Instead he sat down to eat. Grace put her homework aside to join him.

When his father was tucked safely in bed, Harold took Grace by the hand up to his bedroom. They lay close on his single bed, holding each other. She felt good in his arms, her little breasts very soft against his chest. He knew her so well. There was nothing about her that he did not like, that disgusted or turned him off. He kissed her. There was rightness, a closeness to shedding their clothes and slipping under the covers of his bed. A necessary rite of passage, necessary to any hope of a future together.

There were condoms in his bedside drawer and he had practiced putting one on in anticipation of such a day, such a need.

“Don’t rush, there’s no hurry,” he told her. “It’s best if you’re ready.” He’d studied this and knew that moisture was needed, her body would signal its readiness. Be gentle, he told himself, as he explored the most sensitive parts of her body with his fingertips. He could identify the anatomy he’d seen pictured and was relieved that the reality was nicer, warmer and more tender to touch than he’d imagined. This was Grace, his friend, maybe his life partner, she deserved careful attention. The amount of moisture surprised him, the viscosity was ideal. She made a breathy little sound and pushed against his hand with some urgency. Her body clutched at him and he realized he’d made her come.

“That was … that was … really nice,” she said. “I think I must be ready, Harold.” It was a relief to be inside her and Harold liked being clutched in her warm thighs.

If there was a part of him that felt he was taking something under false pretenses, that this coupling was built on a lie, another voice said, he could make a life with Grace Hendricks. If there problems ahead, they could do much worse than to be one another’s first.

 

***

 

It wouldn’t have been a scandal if it weren’t for the FBI agents. Teenaged boys (and girls) had been known to leave Lassiter, sometimes without a word of good bye. Not ones like Harold Davidson, though; a smart boy, a boy with a girlfriend, a job, a father he’d been devoted to. Grace knew only that he’d had to go. A stunning blow like a sudden death.

“I don’t know where he went,” she told them, over and over again. Defiantly at times, tearfully at others. Hooked to a polygraph machine the last time.

She didn’t know what he’d done except that it involved the computer.

They watched her. She knew they did. There was no way for them to disguise their presence in her small town. She feared her family’s phone was tapped, their mail tampered with. Uselessly, because no word ever came from Harold. It hurt more that people in town gave her looks, as though they'd discovered something dangerous about her, about Harold. For the first time she felt the desire to escape the town she'd grown up in and in this, her mother was a great ally.

"There's so much more to the world," she told her daughter. She was thrilled when Grace was accepted at a school in Davis, California. A warm place where she could blossom and experience more than care-taking her childhood sweetheart and his father. 

Charles Davidson had been in the nursing home for a couple of months when Harold disappeared. Grace would continue to visit him there until his death, which was a blessing when it came, the summer before she started college. It was the only thing Harold had asked of her in the desperate phone call before he fled.

“I’m in trouble, Grace, and I have to leave town. Just listen. It’s better that you know nothing. Please … look in on my dad. I know I have no right to ask but I have to. I have to go and I won’t be able to come back. I love you. I hope some day you can forgive me.”


	4. Harold At MIT

Nathan Ingram was the most garrulous, intrusive person Harold had ever met. Even his size was imposing. Six-feet plus of banter, innuendo, and bold-faced questions. He materialized in Harold’s dorm room at the start of his second week of classes, mysteriously replacing his first roommate, a shy youngster from China who had barely looked at Harold, let alone spoken to him, which he considered more or less ideal.

The Massachusetts Institute of Technology; a dream come true, but not in any way he had ever imagined. Faked transcripts, fake name … an unearned scholarship. He’d reached back to his great-grandmother’s maiden name, Wrentham, hoping this thin thread to the past wouldn’t betray his cover. He was now Harold Wren, born, bred and home-schooled in the lakes region of Michigan.

His heart was still aching from the way he’d had to tear himself away from his father, from Grace. He missed her. He worried about her, and every thought of her carried a terrible weight of guilt. A thousand times he’d wracked his brain for a safe way to contact her, to communicate, but knew it would endanger them both if he reached out.

He was steeped in his course work before he even arrived in Cambridge. The science and math were frankly soothing to his brain; free of emotional turmoil. Beautiful, intricate and absorbing.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Harold said, turning slightly in his desk chair to look at his new roommate, who hadn’t given him more than ten minutes of peace in the two hours since he arrived. First chatting while he unpacked his things, then stretching out on his bed and continuing to chat. “I’m trying to study. I appreciate that you’re attempting to be friendly but I’d really like to get back to work.”

“Are you gay?” Nathan asked, apropos of nothing, studying Harold with a vague smile that lit his eyes.

“I beg your pardon.” Harold frowned and turned back to his open book. His heart was thudding so hard his eyes couldn’t focus on the page. He shut it with exaggerated patience. “I think I’ll head to the library.”

“Come on, kid,” Ingram said, sitting up. “Let’s get something to eat and I promise we’ll study like crazy when we get back. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

 

***

The first time he’d laid eyes on Harold Wren was just days into the fall term, in a Commutative Algebra class. It was helmed by a notoriously tough professor. Like many others, Nathan had avoided taking any of the man’s classes as long as he could. As a result, the lecture hall was filled with upperclassmen. Amid a sea of blank faces, in which less than a handful were freshmen, a boy had raised his hand to answer a hypothetical question the first day of class.

“By all means,” the professor had said, voice dryer than the desert. “Stand up and enlighten us.”

Nathan, along with everyone else, had awaited the boy’s evisceration. Harold had stood up and spoken smoothly, thoughtfully, and then sat down to a long silence.

“That is … an interesting observation,” the professor had finally said. “See me after class, Mr … “

“Wren,” Harold supplied.

Nathan had made a point of making Mr Wren’s acquaintance. He was not only smart, he was cute in a way that Nathan had a weakness for, slight build, intelligent face, bright blue eyes and a mop of silky hair. Too young really, at eighteen to Nathan’s twenty-one, but in many ways Harold was startlingly mature. And a bona fide genius.

It wasn’t difficult for him to oust the designated roommate and take his place. Nathan was trading a spacious single room in a townhouse on the other side of the Charles River, with a water view, for the freshman’s cramped shared quarters.

Harold Wren was the definition of reserved but Nathan had finally gotten through to him, befriended him. He’d gotten nowhere fast, however, in his attempts to seduce him. Instead of corrupting the sweet-faced scholar, as he intended, he’d been the one seduced … into studying. Nathan’s grade point average was climbing steeply, thanks to Harold’s tutoring and the fact that if he wanted to spend time with him there were always books and computers involved.

By Christmas the boy had thawed a little and Nathan talked him into spending the break with him in New York, at his family’s place on Central Park West. The rest of the Ingram clan was skiing in Switzerland. Nathan would have Harold to himself.

He knew his young friend had plans involving museums, book stores and other edifying sights in the city but Nathan had a few plans of his own.

“Don’t bother complaining. I’m taking you dancing whether you want to go or not. Think of it as an excuse to wear your black silk suit and payback to me for spending the whole afternoon at the Museum of Natural History.”

He had provided a fake ID for Harold. As an added precaution, as they approached the club, he told him, “Put your arm around me and think grown up thoughts.”

“Is this really necessary, Nathan?” he gave him that look that aged him about ten years, like Nathan was the child and he was the grown up. Perfect, Nathan thought, and pulled him in close against his side. He felt a reluctant arm circle his waist and moments later they were through the door.

At twenty-one, Nathan had been drinking in bars for years. His height and looks, his confidence made it easy. He’d rarely been asked to show his fake license. At this particular bar he was well known by the bouncers and bartenders.

“Here’s to the only engineering student in the history of the world to consider giving up a scholarship at MIT for one at a fashion institute. Come on, Harold. Drink with me.” He leaned in close to be heard, his lips near his friend’s ear. “Eighteen going on nineteen is legal somewhere.”

“Technically, I’m not giving it up, Nathan. I’ll be able to come back later to finish. And it’s not a fashion institute, it's an art school.”

Nathan answered this with a smile. The kid was going to finish up the spring term and take a leave of absence. Unheard of and yet he’d gotten the official blessing. Fashion. Harold wanted to study design. It was yet another mystery about his young friend. Nathan had devoted a lot of time to exploring Harold’s mysteries — a lot of time for little physical reward. There were other benefits, he admitted. A good friend. Better grades.

Nathan had practically dragged Harold to the bar, hoping the atmosphere and music, the sight of guys getting it on with each other would loosen him up. This was New York, not Cambridge. Next year Harold would be living here for school, if you could call an art institute, school. As much as it baffled him he was pleased because he’d be moving back to the city himself after graduation.

Harold looked irresistible, he thought, and very chic in a 60’s vintage, black silk suit he’d bought at a thrift shop and re-tailored for himself. He looked unlike anyone else. He was unlike anyone else and Nathan wanted him.

So far, there was zero loosening going on. He was beginning to doubt that Harold would ever actually lift the bottle to his lips.

Why am I so crazy about this kid? It wasn’t the first or last time he would ask himself that question. To like him, there were countless reasons. To want him like Nathan wanted him — he should have his head examined.

Finally Harold downed a slug of the beer. Nathan laughed at the way he wrinkled his nose. He leaned in close to tell him, “Good boy.”

Nathan’s powers of seduction were considerable, but as of yet, they’d been taxed to the limit to even get the little thing into his arms. His only success had come in the small hours of a long night of studying when Harold had wearily consented to being held while he read, just to stop Nathan’s haranguing.

He was hoping to get much, much more now that he had him away from school, on his own turf.

 

***

Harold was well aware of Nathan’s motives and of his general success in getting what he wanted. He wished his friend would just give up the campaign. He had no desire to be his latest conquest or fall prey to what he saw as a kind of sexual frenzy among his peers, straight and gay.

The bar was noisy, smokey, and he didn’t really like beer. The colored lights interested him until he had the programed pattern figured out.

The most interesting thing about the evening so far was looking at the clothes people were wearing. He was a little disappointed. The gay men of New York, at least in this bar, didn’t appear to be any better dressed than the students at MIT. Differently, maybe, but not better.

His decision to switch fields of study was strategic. It had occurred to him that if the authorities were searching for a young man with his hacking skills, MIT would be a perfect place to look. To stay there, much as he loved it, was beginning to seem unwise.

His eyes lit on a young man who was standing between the bar and the dance floor. What drew Harold’s eye was his posture and the way his shirt fit him, resting precisely on the lines of his shoulders and falling just slightly away from his torso in a way that was generous without billowing. What’s more, it had the look of actually having been ironed. The guy was looking back at him and Harold realized he’d been staring. Mr Shirt was on his way over.

As he got closer Harold saw that not only was the shirt well-made, the person wearing it was very good-looking. As tall as Nathan but that’s where the similarity ended. This young man had the look of an athlete and the air of a small town clinging to him. What saved him from being too pretty was his bone structure, the cheekbones and solid jaw.

“You look kinda young for a place like this,” Mr Shirt said. Leaning close, to be heard. Harold wondered if that was what people liked about the loud music, the excuse to get closer to a stranger and practically touch their ear with your lips.

“So do you,” Harold said, noting that years fell away from him when the young man was closer.

“You’re not making much headway with that beer. Want to go get a burger or something?” His cheek brushed Harold’s before he drew back to see his response. Harold smiled. It sounded like a much better idea than the second round Nathan had left to get. Now it was his turn to speak and the stranger rested his hand on Harold’s shoulder as he leaned in close again to hear him.

“I would like to,” he said, breathing in the fresh-scrubbed scent of him. “But, I’m actually here with a friend and …”

“The blond guy. Is he your boyfriend?”

“No.” The stranger looked skeptical, tilting his head in a very charming way. He leaned much closer then, his lips right near Harold’s ear.

“I think he’d like to be, how he looks at you.” There was a pause, and Harold shivered from the whisper of the young man breathing against his ear. “I don’t … blame him.”

Harold had only drunk a few sips of beer so he couldn’t blame it on the alcohol. The stranger’s nearness, the texture of his voice and … damn it, that perfect shirt on his perfect body.

If I turn my face toward his, he thought, we’ll practically be kissing. The music no longer seemed too loud, it was like a cloak around them and Harold felt the percussion in his body.

 

***

Nathan stopped short, staring. His boy genius was making out with a total stranger. Nathan had noticed him earlier, felt him looking in their direction. He’d thought the guy was cruising him. An army guy, Nathan was sure of it. He’d come across the type before; on leave, out of uniform but easy to spot with the shorn hair and dumb jock faces. This one wasn’t bad-looking, maybe less simian than some of his brethren, but he had his paws on someone much too good for him.

Nathan had to put a stop to this. The question was how.

A light touch would probably be the best approach.

As if he sensed his approach, Harold broke away from the guy. The soldier was slower to step back, looking at Harold like he was committing his face to memory. This was wrong, so wrong. A guy like that, Nathan thought, should be out back somewhere getting head or giving it, not mooning over a cerebral little number like Harold.

Harold was not really pretty, not handsome in any traditional sense. He was smart-looking, attractive in what Nathan thought of as a sophisticated way. There was a fascinating shape to his mouth, he had quirky uneven dimples, an incredible expressiveness in his features. In his own mind, Harold’s beauty called for a certain discriminating taste, which, of course, Nathan believed he had. This guy … did not. Or shouldn’t. Fuck.

It hurt that a kiss he thought should be his had been given away so easily.


	5. Harold, Nathan and John

John Talbots was clear across the country from home. Home was the small town of Puyallup, Washington. The only person he’d ever known that had actually been to New York City was his dad. In the service. And that’s how John had gotten there, on leave from Fort Drum, basic training complete. The training had been exactly what he expected and excelled at, intense physical challenge and discipline. He’d never had any other ambition or envisioned a different future. He felt like he was finally beginning the life he wanted, traveling his chosen road.

Don’t ask, don’t tell. It didn’t bother him. Guys who wanted to, found each other when needed. He didn’t join the army to fall in love. A weekend pass in the city was a chance to see something, do something exciting. Word passed along to him of a place to go. In a cheap hotel room he’d ironed his black dress pants and his one good shirt, a shirt that had belonged to his dad. The old man claimed he’d won in it a poker game on leave in London, and it had been passed along to John. The label inside the collar said, Savile Row.

Definitely, no dancing. It was no more tempting here than it had been at his senior prom where he’d done an obligatory kind of rocking and shuffling to slow songs with his date. The male bodies moving under the intense colored lights were more interesting than the nervous couples gyrating in the school gym. Even so, he couldn’t imagine any amount of liquor that would get him out on the dance floor. 

His eyes skimmed over the men, not wanting to give any signals, not drawn to anyone in particular; savoring the spectacle of it all. He saw a pair of guys at one of the side tables who piqued his interest. Real New York types, he thought. Especially the tall one, his blond hair cut just so, like somebody out of an ad in a magazine. If he were in the army, John thought, he’d be an officer.

The little one with him. That’s where John’s attention caught. This boy had no military counterpart. They didn’t make this model in the army. Fine looking, slim and elegant. He looked young. The blond walked away and the little one looked at him. John didn’t hesitate.

If being in the service offered the kind of challenges that appealed to him, it also offered the chance to see exotic sights and experience things he’d never find in his home town. As a boy he’d been as fascinated by the tokens of his father’s travels as he was proud of the man’s military career.

This boy was a morsel of something special, something John was damn sure he’d never have found back home or encounter in the dark behind the barracks.

 

***

 

It was tense when Nathan came back. Even though he was smiling there was a forced quality to it; Harold could feel the effort he was making. For good reason, he thought, shocked at his own behavior now that a witness had appeared and he wasn’t actively feeling the stranger’s kiss. He was torn between wanting more of it and knowing it was crazy to carry on like that in public, let alone with someone he’d just met.

“So, what’s your name, soldier?” Nathan said. It instantly made sense, the posture, the body that radiated strength and fitness. Even the contained energy one could sense coiled inside the stranger.

“John.” His name is John, Harold thought, the person I want so badly.

“I’m Nathan. This is my friend, Harold.”

“Harold,” John said, and the sound of his own name on this guy’s lips made him feel weak. “Would you like to dance?”

“Dance? No. I don’t dance, really.” He shook his head but John had taken his hand and Harold was holding it, he didn’t want to let go.

“Come on.” An odd sort of smile. Harold followed him. Not looking back, not wanting to see the disapproval. It’s just a dance, he told Nathan in his mind, but he knew he was lying.

They reached the dance floor. It was crowded but John threaded it, finding space. The music was throbbing with a slow beat. It was nothing Harold would ever have willingly listened to, but it suited this dream. He slid into John’s arms, the beautiful shirt now fuchsia, now blue and pulsing pink in the stuttering light.

He supposed they were dancing; they were moving, bodies fitting warm and deliciously close. Pleasure everywhere, from his thighs through his hips and up his belly, his chest and arms. He sighed into John’s collarbone and felt a kiss against his temple. The firm shape of a cock pressed against his hip. John’s hands were roaming over his back, pulling him in close. Harold wanted … he didn’t know what. Everything. To be swaying in these strong arms forever, to be anywhere but here, someplace naked and grasping and kissing and … John’s hand dropped down to squeeze his ass.

“I’ve got a room,” he said. “It’s not good enough for you but it’s somewhere to go.”

 

***

“Do you really want to do this, Harold,” Nathan asked in a harsh whisper, taking hold of his friend’s arm. He wanted to physically restrain him, punch the soldier in the face. The guy had their coats and was waiting. Nathan wanted to break his neck. He might have made a move if he weren’t sure the soldier could put him down and still walk off with Harold. The bitch of it was he’d done this himself, countless times. Met someone and taken off on impulse. A part of him knew he couldn’t stop Harold from making his own mistakes.

“I’ll be okay, Nathan. See you back at the apartment. If I’m still … welcome.” Harold’s eyes were asking forgiveness already. It was something. Nathan pulled him close for a moment, and kissed his forehead, shooting a look at the soldier.

“It’s all right kid, be careful and I’ll see you at home.”

He felt nowhere near as reasonable as he’d forced himself to sound. The bar was intolerable after Harold left. Nathan headed home where he intended to spend the night with a bottle of good scotch for company.

A long night. He started at every noise, thinking his friend had come home. Nathan drank his anger, and when jealousy turned to worry for Harold’s safety, he drank his fear; blotting out visions of the soldier turning violent and his friend beaten and bloody in some alley. Night turned into a dismal day. An ugly mix of rain and snow out the window. Nathan slept fitfully, in his clothes on the couch.

Harold didn’t show up until mid afternoon. He looked … beautiful to Nathan, in a very painful way, lips swollen from someone else’s kisses, his neck marked. He was torn between anger, joy at the sight of him and the bliss of relief that he’d come back.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

“Were you up all night?” Harold asked him.

“I slept off and on. Worried about you. Drank too much.”

To Nathan’s very great surprise the boy peeled out of his jacket, discarded his tie, his shoes, and came to him on the couch. Nathan tentatively held his arms open and Harold lay down into them, settling comfortably.

It was heaven to hold him. Even if he’d spent the night with somebody else. He’d come home to him, trusting him, and was letting himself be touched. It meant something. It meant a lot. Nathan took a deep breath, enjoying the moment, feeling stronger for surviving the ordeal. It was a kind of win that the night was through and he was the one holding him. Friends could outlast lovers. Friends could become lovers. He’d never been as deeply drawn to anyone, or cared this much. It was more important than sex.

“Sorry I put you through that,” Harold murmured.

“Me too.” He kissed the top of his head. The kid must have showered, he smelled like soap. “Your guy head back to base?”

“Yes.”

Good, Nathan thought. That would be the end of it.


	6. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tissue alert. I wasn't intending all this angst ... but I wrote it.

Harold didn’t really see the place until morning.

The room was lit up when they walked in, filled with green and gold light from the neon sign out the window. Without his glasses on it was like an undersea dream. They were divers, exploring and surfacing, wet cocks, wet kisses, cum-smeared fingers. And again, and again until they fell into exhausted sleep.

He was lying in a valley of the sprung mattress. The bedside table where he found his glasses was scored with burn marks, left by people too drunk or strung out to notice their cigarettes burning down. The closet was a shelf over a bar bolted to the wall. At least their clothes were hung up — Harold couldn’t remember doing that. The window shade was frayed and stained, the neon reflections were watered down by the gray morning light.

It was a world away from the two-story apartment on Central Park West. The contrast didn’t really bother Harold. This place was a lot like the rooms he’d hidden out in, before MIT. The small town versions almost always had a TV bolted to the dresser.

He heard the toilet flush. The bathroom door opened and Harold smiled, seeing a young god emerge naked. John looked even better in the light of day. Except he wasn’t smiling.

“What’s wrong?”

John shook his head a little. “Nothing. Just …five hours. That’s all I have left.” The mattress rocked when he climbed on. Harold ate up the sight of him, approaching on his hands and knees.

“I’ve got another week here,” Harold said. “Maybe a little more.”

“The thing is … ” John lay down beside him, reaching out to stroke Harold’s thigh. “I’m headed for Germany. There’s no way I can get back here for … I don’t know, maybe six months, maybe longer.” It wasn’t good news but Harold took it in and accepted it. It made sense to him. This was something too good to last.

He ran his hand over the top of John’s head, rubbing the nap of his short hair, like pushing velvet in the wrong direction. It made the boy’s expression soften with pleasure, even if the sadness was still there.

“It can’t be Christmas … every day,” Harold said; half teasing, half serious. It made the young solider grin.

“That’s exactly what you are, Harold.”

“Me? No, John. You. The whole … night.” John was a feast, too rich, too good for real life.

“We still have five hours.”

 

***

 

Come to Germany. Wait for me. Don’t fuck that guy, Nathan.

John had stayed awake longer than Harold, holding him, wanting impossible things. He woke up early and started wanting them all over again; but he saw how it would go. This kid was even younger than he was, impossible to think about promises or forever kinds of things. And John knew in his heart that Harold was too good for him. Too special. John saw something in him he couldn’t name or understand, he just knew he wanted to have it.

It was there when Harold said the thing about Christmas. Looking so kissable and smart, all at the same time in a way that made John ache.

Five hours. John still had condoms left and a commissary pack of gloves and lube. He wanted to fuck him, and he wanted to feel Harold inside him. The night had been all about hands and mouths, about licking and sucking. So good, but John wanted more. He wanted to fuck Harold and then he wanted to give him his virgin ass. Maybe then he’d feel like he’d gotten enough.

 

***

The shower stall was tiny and Harold said, “You’re crazy,” when John crowded into it with him, but really, he wanted every second of touching just as much.

We’re making this worse, he thought, by clinging to each other when we should begin backing away. He felt the threat of sadness breaking him and cleared his throat. There was a little stream of water zig-zagging down the side of John’s neck and Harold licked it, he sucked gently to leave no mark.

Finally, he was dressed and there was nothing but saying goodbye.

“You have to go,” John told him. “I need to get in uniform, get my head straight. If you’re here … I won’t stop touching you.”

“Be good John. Maybe see you next summer.”

They’d made some vague arrangements for John to find him in the city, through the Ingrams, if he came back to the states through New York. It was something to say, at least, that wasn’t, good bye forever.

It was good to be out on the street, in the lunch hour crowds; to negotiate the subway, the cold and the chaos, the noise was helpful. The wet snow had stopped when he got off the train so he walked the last leg of the journey, across town through the park.

Binoculars, he thought, searching the dark branches and shrubbery for birds. Even in winter there were species to be sighted in Central Park. Sparrows, Juncos, even Hummingbirds had been documented. There was no shortage of ducks.

Nathan might have a pair of field glasses. The thought of his friend brought a sigh. He should have called him at some point, let him know he was okay. There was something about Nathan that reminded him of Grace, which made no sense, but they stirred a similar feeling in him. Affection, and … guilt. Both friends wanted something from him he didn’t really have to give. He’d give what he could.

By the time he reached Nathan he was tired and partly numbed.

It touched him to find his friend so undone with worry and he was sorry for what he’d put him through. It was like discovering he had a pet and realizing he’d left it uncared for; a Golden Retriever who’d been faithfully watching the door, awaiting his return.

Nathan’s long body ranged on the soft sofa suddenly looked very comforting and familiar, like another layer of bandage that Harold could apply to his heart. Not a good reason, not the right reason to lie down in someone’s arms but he lay down there all the same; like the owner of the Golden finding comfort for life’s hurts in the long soft fur and warm body.

 

***

No more bars. The rest of the week Nathan reined in his expectations and was careful with his friend. He seemed a little fragile. He didn’t question him about the soldier and Harold volunteered nothing.

Nathan took him to museums, to galleries, to department stores and thrift shops. Looking at clothes seemed to draw Harold out of himself. They scouted the neighborhood where he’d be in school. When Nathan suggested they might share an apartment in Manhattan that summer, Harold didn’t say no.

Nathan wasn’t giving up on sex, but he’d learned something. Harold was not quite the shy young thing he had imagined. He could be passionate, hot enough to spend the night in a cheap hotel with a stranger. If anything, knowing there was a core of heat in there, somewhere, made Nathan want him even more. He needed to change his approach. The all-out assault on innocence wasn’t going to work. For one thing, Harold was not particularly innocent and he couldn’t be pestered into bed. Given time, Nathan thought he’d find the key.

Adjusting his sights and committing himself to the longview, he enjoyed their days together; looking at things with him, buying things for him, taking him out to eat and to the movies. They saw a French film one night, a Japanese art house film the next. In the quiet dark of the theater, Nathan put his arm across the back of his friend’s seat and was rewarded by Harold settling back peacefully in this semi-embrace.

 

***

Christmas morning Harold was up early and quietly brewing coffee in the Ingram’s kitchen. This time, he was using a French press; their kitchen was full of interesting appliances and devices and it was possible to choose a different method every day to make coffee. He was sitting on a stool at the marble counter, watching the time for the right moment to press the grounds. He thought about Grace as he waited and the ancient electric percolator in his mother’s kitchen. He silently wished Grace a good Christmas. His mind wandered to John and he felt a little whisper of longing, thinking about kisses, about the unexpected pleasures of dancing.

The phone rang on the wall behind him and he jumped to answer it before it could ring again. His first thought was Nathan’s parents must be calling and he’d need to wake up his friend.

“Ingram residence,” he answered.

“Harold?” The voice was unmistakable.

“John?”

“Yes.” Harold listened but all he heard was John breathing, some background sounds, voices.

“Are you okay?”

“Not … really.”

“Where are you?”

There was a long sigh in answer and Harold felt the yearning reach right through the phone. “A bar in Berlin. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done this. I wanted to hear your voice.”

“It’s okay.”

“I don’t know what to say except I wish … I wish a lot of things that can’t happen.”

“We didn’t leave much undone to wish for,” Harold said, hoping to make the boy laugh. It didn’t happen. “What I wish, John … is that we could think about the night we spent together and be happy. Think about how good it was.”

“I’m not like you. I want more than a happy memory. If I look for you in six months, will you really be there?”

“Somewhere here in the city. You can find me through the Ingrams, through Nathan. But John … “

“Nathan, right. He’s probably forgiven you — I would. Seems like an okay guy, you could do worse. I won’t call again, Harold.”

“Nathan’s just a friend,” Harold said, but he was losing his voice and felt like he was lying. There was too much to explain. He couldn’t explain. The careful bandaging he’d fixed in place was tearing and he needed to staunch the flow.

“Take care of yourself, Harold.”

“Wait … “ Harold said, but the line was dead.

Harold felt his throat swell with anguish, he squeezed his eyes shut on spilling tears. He reached for the paper towels by the sink and turned on the cold water faucet. His weeping stuttered and quieted as he splashed his face with the freezing water.


	7. Spring Term and Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea when I started out that I was going to write so much angst! In other stories I've brushed past or left out Harold's paranoia. In this world it became real to me how it would feel for someone so young to flee from his past and feel hunted. I will try to find some light soon, for my own sake if not for my reader's!

Nathan was awake but warm in bed. The aroma of coffee had reached his upstairs bedroom and he was having a pleasant fantasy. Harold bringing him coffee in bed and slipping into the covers with him, offering him a special Christmas present that began with his clever little hand on Nathan’s cock. He was stroking his morning hard-on into something more intense when the phone rang. He assumed it was his parents and any minute Harold would call out to tell him to pick up the phone.

He waited. What the hell was taking so long?

It could have been anyone who forgot the family was out of town, he decided, getting out of bed. He was now wide awake and no longer in the mood to masturbate. He pulled on his jeans and a sweater and headed downstairs.

Harold was in the kitchen, still in his pajamas; those ridiculous things he’d bought with his gift certificate from the family. The pajamas looked like they were meant for somebody’s grandfather. Because they were. At Saks, Harold had asked if they had something suitable for an older gentleman with a classic wardrobe. The young man behind the counter had smiled and then disappeared briefly into the stockroom. He came out with a few items to show.

“We keep these styles for certain of our long-time patrons. Very well made, a traditional style and fabric. They are somewhat higher-priced,” he noted a little apologetically, “but the quality is excellent.”

“Rich old man pjs,” Nathan said, but Harold had ignored him and produced the gift certificate.

Now Nathan could hardly stand how adorable the baggy old-fashioned things looked on his friend.

“The coffee smells good. Who was on the phone?”

“John.”

“John? As in the soldier from the bar, John. You gave him my number?”

“It’s complicated, Nathan.” Harold walked past him with his coffee. Nathan said … nothing. He poured coffee, which looked much too strong, and added a slug of cream while he gathered his wits. John. He’d thought that was done with. Was the bastard in town? He took a deep breath, told himself to not to over react and headed out to find Harold. He was in the living room, folded in on himself in the corner of the long couch; facing the big windows overlooking the park.

Nathan turned on the fireplace. The gas lit with a satisfying whoosh and the dance of flames.

“Is he in town?” he asked, sitting near him without crowding him. Harold shook his head.

“Berlin,” he said.

Nathan relaxed into the couch. This was good news, and … bad news. Good that he wasn’t here and bad that Harold was unhappy. Some kind of sympathy was needed. That much he knew.

“Tough to be overseas for Christmas,” he finally said. Harold nodded. Looking more closely, Nathan thought he could see signs … of crying; the boy was looking a little bruised around the eyes. That was really not good.

The phone rang and this time it was his parents. It was a relief in a way, letting him off the hook. Even though he wasn’t in a great frame of mind for the Christmas phone call, he had no idea what to say to Harold right now to make him feel better. While he talked and listened, he kept an eye on his friend. Both of his older brothers wanted to brag about skiing and make it sound like he was missing a great time, and the younger one was all excited about his own adventures. Then his parents were falling all over themselves to make sure things were okay at home. In the midst of this barrage he reached over to pat Harold’s leg in a way he hoped was reassuring. Harold didn’t pull away.

***

It was oddly calming to listen to Nathan banter with his family, joke and tease about skiing, about the holiday.

“We’re having a great time here. It’s all museums and culture. Yes, he’s an excellent influence … we did. He got a pair of incredible old man pajamas.” It was good to hear Nathan laugh. Harold let himself absorb a little of the normalcy, the happiness of the phone call.

The pain of longing for John was different from his other losses. The time with him had been a pure joy; no guilt, no sorrow, every bit of Harold ecstatically present in his skin. Until the end. He couldn’t allow himself to linger there. It was better that John had hung up when he did. Before Harold could fall apart and make promises he couldn’t keep, tell him things he shouldn’t tell anyone. His life was too unstable, too unreal. A fake person with a fake past. He’d made his mistakes and he would live with them. John would move on. He’d leave a one-night stand behind him soon enough. He’d lead a happy life that had nothing to do with Harold. That thought brought him too close to the tears still lodged in his throat. He took another sip of coffee. It was bitter from steeping too long.

 

***

 

“You said no presents, I know.” Nathan was apologetic, but he smiled. “This is almost nothing. I’d already gotten these things before you made your big pronouncement, so you have to accept them.” He put the gifts in Harold’s lap. “After you open them we should go for a nice long walk. Maybe as far as Chinatown. Chinese food for Christmas.”

Harold looked more relaxed when Nathan finally got off the phone. He knew the gifts would annoy him, but annoyance was a good thing compared to sadness. The packages looked pretty, professionally wrapped at the bookstore where he’d bought them. The walk was his only other idea for distracting and cheering the boy up.

In a million years Nathan could not have predicted what the gifts would mean, what they’d do to his friend. A book. It was just a paperback, a basic field guide to north American birds, and a slim pair of field glasses. He’d picked them up after Harold mentioned how famous parts of Central Park were for bird watching. At first the things sat there, half open, in his lap. And he stared at them. Then he slowly came apart before Nathan’s astonished eyes; touching them with shaky hands, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Nathan was stunned by the quiet weeping, Harold’s breath kept catching in little gulps for air. Nathan grabbed the closest box of tissues and put it in his friend’s hands. He took the book and glasses away. He could think of nothing but John that Harold could be crying about. At this point it didn’t matter, whatever it was had to be made better.

“What on earth,” he said as gently as he could. He tentatively put his arms around him and Harold flowed against him, weeping softly into a handful of tissues. 

“I’m sorry,” Harold said, his voice reedy with tears. Nathan rubbed his back, trying not to take advantage of his closeness, trying to keep the touching from becoming a caress.

“Don’t be sorry. I’ve heard rumors that it’s okay to cry.” Nathan pet him and waited. So many tears. His own eyes were getting misty by the time Harold sat back, wiping his eyes. He blew his nose and took off his glasses to wipe them dry.

“I’m sorry, Nathan. You couldn’t know. I had these things,” he said. “When I was a boy.” His voice still sounded choked, quiet. “For Christmas from … my mother.”

“You still are a boy, Harold.” A boy that Nathan knew had lost his mother very young, a boy whose father had died not that long ago. He hadn’t even thought about how Christmas might feel for someone who’d lost their family, seeing Harold’s aloneness only as an excuse to take him home with him. He cursed himself silently.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, but it didn’t seem like anywhere near the apology he should make.

Harold was drawing in a deep shaky breath. He reached over to touch Nathan’s hand. “No. There’s nothing to be sorry for. It’s … a good memory, really. Not bad, Nathan. Not bad. Thank you. It’s … a perfect gift.” Then he took a good deep breath and looked at him. Eyes shiny, his skin blotchy and his nose pink from wiping. Harold’s forgiveness was an incredible balm and Nathan was grateful the storm was passing.

“You look pretty when you cry, if that’s any consolation.” To his very great relief, this made his friend smile and shake his head.

 

***

John rejoined his buddies at the table they’d commandeered near the front window of the bar. There was a dark foamy beer awaiting him and he chugged it. That phone call, not a smart move. He could have been sitting here with a half hard-on, remembering how sweet it was to fuck Harold instead of feeling like something got ripped out of his chest. Learn your lesson, he told himself.

“Frohe Weihnachten … Merry Christmas.” His empty glass was cleared away and a fresh one set in its place. He looked up into a generous cleavage and then quickly up into the pretty green eyes of the barmaid.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, not attempting to mimic the German version, raising his glass to her. He was grateful this time around for the usual raft of abuse he got from other guys for the way that women came on to him. He wondered sometimes if it wasn’t his looks as much as a sixth sense they had that he was safe. It was easy enough to evade most encounters, though he’d succumbed a few times. Sex with women was a challenge he could meet, but it always depressed him, waking up with them the morning after.

Harold was one of very few guys he’d spent a night with.

The lesson was … what the fuck was the lesson. Taking someone home from a bar, knowing you were about to leave town was a bad idea. Very bad idea. Especially if that person was every bit as special, as desirable as you thought they were at first sight. Especially if that person was … Harold.

 

***

Immersing himself in schoolwork was Harold’s cure for Christmas break. He made a new friend at the start of the spring term, a very funny and brilliant senior named Arthur Claypool. Computers, math, physics, engineering. These were the languages they spoke to one another and Harold began to spend a lot of time with him in the computer lab. They had multiple projects they worked on together but Harold insisted his name be left off any published work.

“Why?” Arthur demanded the third time the issue arose. “Don’t give me that crap again about being a freshman, or art school, or whatever excuse you used last time. This is your work as much as mine and your name should be on it. We’re not just talking about prestige now. These specs are going to become the basis for a very lucrative contract.”

They were alone in the lab. Harold had rarely seen his friend this serious. Never this angry.

“Please. Trust me, Arthur,” Harold said, abandoning the excuses, feeling the heat of Arthur’s intensity and returning it. “I have a very good reason. You’re right about the excuses I made. But I’m asking you, as my friend, not to use my name.” Harold felt Arthur’s deep brown eyes questioning, studying him and weighing his words. He seemed to come to a decision and his look softened.

“My brilliant friend. It hurts me not to give credit where credit is due but I see fear. That confuses me. It makes about as much sense as you studying … clothing design. But if using your name would somehow put you at risk, put you in danger that’s real or imagined … I won’t do it. Protecting you is much more important to me.” Then he smiled a little sadly, but with great affection. “I won’t ask you what you’re afraid of, Harold. Clearly you would tell me if you felt like you could. But, I warn you, I will figure it out.”

“Maybe,” Harold said, smiling himself, with relief. If anyone could, it would be Arthur, he thought. If he weren’t afraid that knowing about him, knowing the FBI was looking for him, would make someone guilty of harboring or abetting him, he’d have spilled his story right then and there. He trusted Arthur and that was a very good reason to protect him. It was a dangerous indulgence on his part to do the work with him, but for Harold, computer code was like poetry, love letters. It was more; a language, a world he understood much better than the one people lived in.


	8. Gene Hackman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lighter touch.

It was a brownstone in the Village that Nathan’s parents had bought but not renovated yet. Harold and Nathan lived in the apartment that occupied the bottom two floors, and somewhat to Nathan’s chagrin, Arthur inhabited the apartment on the third floor. He was the only one paying rent; working at NYU with a very generous grant.

Nathan was taking some summer graduate courses, also at NYU, with an eye toward figuring out what direction he wanted to move in, career-wise. He had some talent as an engineer, an interest in business; some curiosity about studying law.

It drove him a little crazy that Harold was working day and night, for no money, as an intern design assistant for an obscure fashion label. He seemed to think he was lucky to have the job.

Nathan heard the hum of his sewing machine in action at odd times of the day and night. He’d turned the front room of the downstairs level into his work room and had a single bed/couch arrangement in there where he often crashed though his designated bedroom was the back one upstairs. Sewing machine, ironing board and his latest prized possession, a tailor’s mannequin.

Nathan had to admit his friend looked like money, like he had a sugar daddy supplying his wardrobe. Harold was the only person he knew who could make a suit look like the perfect choice for what to wear on a hot summer day.

“How do you do that?” For once, Nathan was up early enough in the morning to be downstairs in the kitchen having coffee when his friend was getting ready for work.

“It’s the fabrics, Nathan. The fit, not too close to the body.”

The body was looking … nice. A little thin from the job that ran him ragged. It was an appealing little body but only irresistible because of who it belonged to. He took a chance and ran his hand up the back of Harold’s thigh since he was standing so close at the table, organizing the things he carted around all day in his messenger bag. Sketchbook. A huge collection of keys. Mobile phone. Small and complicated looking with its miniature keypad and antennae, a tiny screen. Arthur had fabricated these devices in the lab at NYU and given one to Harold. It was practically glued to him. Nathan wanted one even though it actually seemed like a drag to carry around a phone and have no excuse for ignoring calls. Then there was the mobile computer. Might be interesting if it weren’t for the fact that all it connected you to were people like Arthur.

“You’re getting a little scrawny.” As if he was just touching him to gauge his weight. Harold smiled, which was encouraging.

“Everyday, at least one of the buyers brings in donuts. Sprinkles, cream-filled, crullers, beautiful glazed maple things; incredible assortments, just to torture the models. I’m the only one who ever eats one.”

“Eat two today.” He might have pushed the leg stroking a little too far, up to the curve of his ass. Harold shot him a glance, so he stopped. “Give me a kiss goodbye.” It didn’t hurt to ask. His friend smiled and bent down to give him a quick peck on the lips. Softness and a vague impression of mint. His tea or his toothpaste, Nathan didn’t know which, but he liked it.

Nathan had envisioned a summer of leisurely strolls through the Village, dining out at cafes, weekends at the shore. He was spending the summer more or less the way he’d pictured it, but without Harold’s company. He wasn’t entirely without companionship, however. A casual affair with a neighbor on the island was keeping him sane. It was a relief to have someone to turn to on weekends who was interested in sailing and sex.

He was, in fact, at the family’s summer house on Long Island on a weekend in August, when his mother mentioned a call she’d gotten before leaving the city. From a young soldier. She’d stopped him on the porch on his way to a sailing date.

“I forgot to tell you, Nathan. A friend of yours and Harold’s called yesterday. Someone named John. Very sexy voice. Anyway, he was looking for a phone number for you and Harold. I told him my misfortune was his good fortune. If I wasn’t so wiped out by allergies, I’d have already been here with the rest of you … Nathan?”

“Yes, what?”

“Is something wrong.”

“No, everything’s fine.” Just fucking perfect.

 

***

 

Ranger school was a major step. John had met the requirements and was on his way to Fort Benning in Georgia to begin a grueling two months of training. He was well aware that close to forty percent of trainees who started, dropped out within the first four days. Less than half would finish. He believed in his own chances. He knew everything it was possible to know about the tasks ahead. At the start of the flight he occupied himself reviewing manuals and materials he already knew by heart. As the hours passed he left them unopened. All he could think about was that his plane was going to land at JFK.

He’d done something really stupid. He’d left a two day gap between landing in New York and his flight to Atlanta. He did it without letting himself think about it too much. No big deal. If he made the call and it came to nothing he could either get on an earlier flight or find a place to stay for a couple days.

I’m an idiot.

He couldn’t stop thinking that there was a chance he could be devouring the boy he wanted, getting every last drop of him for two days. But … he might not. Not, was much more likely. He was getting very restless; his dick half hard and he couldn’t tell if it was desire or nerves.

If he made the call and it led to Harold. Then what? Harold might not want to see him. If he did … that was dangerous to hope for. The closer he got to New York, the harder it was to resist hoping; he’d find him and Harold would see him. The odds weren’t good, but he wanted it so bad. The chances couldn’t be worse than those first four days of Ranger school and he was gonna make it all the way through.

 

***

Harold heard the phone ringing in his bag as headed home from work. He’d stayed late, as always, and didn’t want to turn around and go back in. Didn’t want to hear the soft purr of his boss’s pleading voice, “Only you get the salad mix right, mon cher. I’m starving … “

But it could be important, so he answered it. John. The timbre, the voice, it was unmistakable, even if his brain had to catch up to decipher the words.

“I’m at the taxi stand at JFK. Can I see you?” John. He stopped in his tracks. The call he’d been praying for and dreading all summer.

“Oh god, yes. Yes.” So much for thinking it would be better to hear nothing from John. He gave him the address and kissed the phone.

It rang again, two minutes later and he answered eagerly. This time it was his boss. Harold groaned silently and glanced up to see if he’d passed the corner with the Greek coffee shop where they made the salad Ezekiel ate when he was dieting.

“I’ll take care of it.” No use fighting it. Calculating times, he thought he could still make it home before John could get there from the airport. He’ll wait, he told himself, heading into the restaurant. At this one, Harold had become well-known.

“Yes, an order to go. Why you can’t keep this on file somewhere …”

The young man behind the counter gave him an innocent shrug but there was a smile in his big brown eyes. Harold was aware of two of the waiters exchanging looks farther down the counter.

He’d come up with the perfect blend to silence his boss’s various complaints and had ordered it so many times it seemed ridiculous that they didn’t know it by heart.

“One Cesar style salad, please. Romaine lettuce, no spines, to the top of the lower portion of the box. Half a dozen sliced mushrooms, no visible dirt, please. A quarter cup of shredded red cabbage. Eight large croutons. Three marinated peppers. Three anchovies. Hand-grated parmesan. Cesar dressing on the side.”

The cashier handed him change (as it often happened, Harold was paying out of his own pocket.)

“Nico likes to hear you order it.”

“Yes, I’m sure it’s very entertaining.” He reached out for the bag and glanced back at the person who apparently was Nico. The wink was … okay, kind of adorable, but Harold shook his head, thinking, I did nothing to encourage that. Did I?

Ten minutes to get back to the office and hand off the salad, and then he was free.

***

There was no answer at either door, the one under the stairs or the one at the top of the stairs. John was sure he had the address right so he sat on the steps with his ruck sack and waited. It was warm, still sunny at seven o’clock. A man was walking toward him, frankly staring at him. Odd-looking, with wild long curly hair. Worn out jeans and a tee-shirt, some kind of shoulder bag that looked heavy across his chest, a big red shopping bag in each hand. He stopped right in front of John and the aroma of Chinese food reminded John he hadn’t eaten.

“Hello there. Can I help you with something? I live upstairs here.”

“Sorry.” He started to get up but the man set the bags of food down and waved him to stay where he was.

“You’re more than welcome sit on the stoop I just thought I might be of assistance.”

“I’m waiting for my friend, Harold.” Saying his name felt so … private, he was so much more used to speaking it silently than out loud. Now the man was grinning at him.

“Your friend? I’m Arthur. As it happens I’m also a friend of Harold’s.” John shook the outstretched hand, thinking the guy was less odd-looking close up, smiling. Friendly.

“John.”

“Well John, I have a truly … wondrous array of Chinese food here. I was hoping to entice Harold with some wontons and Kung Pao, and it’s come to my attention that he has never seen my favorite Gene Hackman movie, The Conversation. If they ever let him out of that sweat shop he toils in.”

“Sweat shop?”

“Figurative, not literal. Here he comes.”

John looked. He was there, halfway down the block. A thousand times better than John had pictured him, hurrying toward them. Dressed in layers of cool-looking creamy fabric. The light jacket flying open around him as he half-walked and half-ran. His long silky bangs pushed back. John’s heart felt like it would beat out of his chest. He stood up and held out his arms to grab him the second he was in reach.

 

***

 

The uniform was startling, the camouflage pattern so distinct and defining. Harold saw him in the distance with Arthur. He offered up a silent prayer of thanks that it was Arthur and not Nathan at home.

All his internal debates were nothing. It was John. Harold’s happiness was bubbling through him uncontrollably. The open arms nearly brought tears to his eyes. He dropped his messenger bag atop the ruck sack and leapt upward to be caught and hugged in the powerful arms.

“Gentlemen.” Harold heard Arthur’s voice. “Why don’t you move this party inside. Take one of these bags of Chinese food.”

“Thank you so much, Arthur. I know I said we’d watch the movie … “

“Hush. Gene Hackman can wait.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think AU when I write the technology, and forgive my creative liberties.


	9. Two Days

“Is this your room?” John saw the bed against the back wall, beyond the surprising array of sewing things and shelves stacked with fabrics. He’d only seen Harold in two settings, the hotel room and the bar. This room was something beyond his imagining. Did they teach … sewing at MIT?

“My work room. I’m going to study design, starting in the fall. I … make my clothes.”

“Really, what about MIT?” He was confused. It didn’t matter to him what Harold did but he’d had the impression of him attending classes where they taught incomprehensible science and math, spending the summer in the city for fun.

“I took a leave of absence. It’s … complicated. My room is upstairs.”

Harold was standing at the foot of the stairs, looking at him, holding the bag of food.

“Mrs Ingram said the whole family was at their summer place. We’re alone?”

“Yes.”

John took the bag of food out of Harold’s hand and led him to the small bed.

“Just a little, just a few minutes here first,” John said, sitting on the bed and pulling Harold toward him by his hips. He pressed his face into his belly and rubbed his lips over his cock.

“Wait.” Harold stepped back, opening his belt. “Get your pants off, John. Or down.” Harold was pushing his loose trousers and boxers down his legs, they bunched at his ankles.

John was tempted to just grab him and get his mouth on his hard cock but Harold’s face was adamant with a different need. He wants … naked; the thought sent a sweet jolt of heat through him and John hurried to unzip and get free of his pants and underwear, shoving them down past his knees as far as he could, as fast as he could. Harold pushed him back on the bed and lowered himself on top of him. The world dissolved into needy kisses and restless cocks. A silky thigh snaked over John’s balls and he nearly came, sliding swollen and taut in the wetness between their stomachs. Impossible to last. Harold was squirming on top of him, bare skin getting slippery. So good, too good.

When Harold came he threw his head back, his face clouded with pleasure … it was beautiful and it was all John could take, erupting into the slick of Harold’s cum as the boy ground against him. 

Heart still beating hard, still trying to catch his breath, John opened his eyes. Harold was gazing down at him. Cheeks bright and his eyes dazed with pleasure. John reached up to touch his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

“Better now?” he asked him.

Harold nodded and let his head come to rest on John’s shoulder.

“Better,” he whispered.

It took them a while, but they eventually made their way to Harold’s bedroom where he pulled the cover off his bed and spread it out on the floor.

Stripped down and cleaned up, the first rush of need sated, they made a picnic of the Chinese food on the floor by Harold’s bed. John sat propped against the bed. Harold was crossed legged beside him. The room was very warm but John had no complaints. He was starving, the food smelled wonderful and his boy was naked by his side. The summer evening sky was a deep tourquoise color out the top of the window which was open to a slight breeze. The bottom allowed a little light through the slats of wooden shutters.

“You learned to like beer?” John watched Harold open a cold bottle and take a sip. 

“A little.” He wiped his mouth. “Nathan drinks a lot of it so … there’s always cold beer in the refrigerator.” John wondered if he regretted mentioning Nathan; it hung a little awkwardly in the air. “It pairs well with certain foods. Spicy foods like Kung Pao. Here … “ John focused on Harold. Nathan wasn’t here, Nathan was nothing he could do anything about.

Harold was expertly winding noodles on his chopsticks and lifted the mouthful to feed to John. Spicy and rich, the taste was almost as good as the way Harold was looking at him. 

“How long do we have?”

“Two days.” The big blue eyes shut and then opened slowly.

“Twice as long.” Harold smiled a little. There was a drop of sadness in it. John didn’t want him to be sad, not with two whole days in front of them.

“My turn,” he said, picking up a fried dumpling with his fingers and dipping it in sauce to put in Harold’s mouth. Watching him eat it, he needed to touch him and leaned closer slowly to kiss his cheek, running his hand down the smooth skin of his stomach to his tender, soft cock.

“Your friend, Arthur,” he said. “Nice guy to give us all this food.”

“Very nice,” Harold agreed, winding more noodles on his chopsticks. “Open.”

The spices mingled with their kisses and they cooled their mouths with the icy beer.

 

***

 

Nathan called Arthur that night. He needed to know what was happening. There was a slim chance that John never actually called even though he got the number, or maybe he called and Harold (wisely) told him they shouldn’t see each other.

“Have you seen Harold? Do you know if anyone’s visiting downstairs?”

“Visiting? That’s a quaint term for it. Brings to mind the phrase, gentleman caller. I have seen Harold and, yes he has a visitor. A very handsome soldier, of all things, visiting him as we speak. His name is John.”

“I know his name, Arthur. Do you have any idea when he’s leaving?”

“I haven’t the foggiest. It’s really extraordinary … ”

“Okay, Arthur … thanks. I’ll check in tomorrow.” He did not want to listen to a long-winded rumination on the theme of Harold and gentleman callers.

Nathan accepted Arthur’s relationship with his friend because he had no choice, but he tolerated him more than he liked him. It wasn’t just that Arthur sucked up a lot of Harold’s time and attention. It was an underlying feeling that Arthur didn’t respect him or approve of him. Nathan, in turn, found him boring and pretentious. At this particular moment, he found him insufferable. 

The urge to go back to the city tormented him. He thought about showing up and forcing them to deal with him being there. The more sane of his inner voices counseled that he’d be the one forced to deal. Forced to lie in bed and listen to them in the room next door. It made him nauseous to think about. Why couldn’t this guy John just go away and stay away.

He called Arthur again the next day, hoping it was over. “Is John still there?”

“Definitely. I’ve only gotten a few glimpses. I leave food offerings on the hall table outside the bedroom and the little mice sneak out and get them. I put out bagels and cream cheese this morning, and coffee from Carmello’s. This afternoon I left a pizza and some beer. The soldier peeked out the bedroom door to thank me. Harold called me not long after to add his thanks. I asked him how long his friend is staying.”

“And?” 

“Tomorrow night.”

“I wish you’d try not to sound so gleeful about this, Arthur. The last time around Harold was a complete wreck afterwards. It’s heartbreaking.”

“Considering the transcendent state he’s currently in, that would not surprise me. How much they’ll suffer from saying good bye doesn’t make it any less wonderful that they’re extremely happy right now.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow night so Harold isn’t alone.” 

“Nathan, no offense intended, but I think this particular hurt might be better tended to by a friend who isn’t interested in sleeping with him.”

“Arthur, no offense taken. Fuck you.” 

 

***

 

“I love you, Harold.”

The room was dark. John was still inside him. He’d come but his cock was still hard, his body still reverberating. Harold was on his side, pressed back against him, ass flush to John’s groin. John stroked his cum-streaked belly and kissed the back of his head.

Harold made a sound that didn’t quite form a word.

“I’ll take that as, you love me too.”

John felt him nod in agreement. He sighed and hugged him closer.

 

***

The two days were full but even twice as long came to an end.

They’d made progress, Harold thought, in learning some details, here and there, about each other’s lives. He was anxious about the rigorous path John had chosen with Ranger school. It sounded difficult and dangerous and could lead to more of the same if he was successful.

“I know very little about the military, John, but aren’t there jobs that aren’t so … dangerous?”

They were enjoying yet another of Arthur’s generous offerings; flaky croissants, almond and chocolate, huge cups of latte from Carmello’s bakery down the street. The last day stretched before them.

John gave him an indulgent look that Harold knew meant he’d said something at least faintly ridiculous.

“If I was avoiding danger, do you think I’d be in the army, Harold?”

Obviously not. Harold understood, in a way. John had an energy, a presence that was powerful, that seemed like a warrior’s essence. Even when he was still, one could feel the force of it in him. This visceral understanding didn’t make Harold any happier with the thought of John in combat. He didn’t think there were any current armed conflicts requiring American troops. Were there? He needed to do some research.

“No. I don’t suppose you’d have chosen the army to avoid danger.”

“The good news is, if I make it through the training, I’ll probably get some significant leave time. That would be in October. Don’t worry about me, Harold. I’m tough.”

“You are. But, I will worry.”

 

***

 

Nathan came home to an empty apartment. He went upstairs and knocked on Arthur’s door.

“Come in, Nathan.”

They were in the front room. The light was low, Gene Hackman’s face was frozen in pause on the TV screen. Harold was in his pajamas on the couch, sound asleep with a light blanket over him.

“Came up with his pillow, ate a little popcorn and lasted about twenty minutes into the movie. I don’t think they slept much all weekend.”

“Thanks for that detail.” Nathan thought about waking him up to urge him downstairs but was too conscious of his own motivations with Arthur watching him. He wanted the comfort of comforting Harold. For his own sake. “I’ll let you get on with your movie."


	10. The Ritz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tissues!

January in Paris. How unromantic, Harold thought, gazing at the overcast sky through the cafe window. He was twenty-six years old and his life felt like it was falling apart. Falling apart in spite of what should have been a joyous milestone in his career. Five of his menswear pieces had walked a Chanel runway at the Ritz the night before, part of a commemorative exhibition.

He turned his attention back to his breakfast. A fruit plate. He winced at the sharp taste of a grapefruit segment. Resting his fork on the dish he took a sip of espresso and found it bitter. If he hadn’t fled from Nathan he could have been enjoying a steaming bowl of cafe creme. Not really a choice.

Their business partnership had begun after Harold graduated. They’d been a couple, off and on since then. All of it came after the abrupt end of things with John. Harold still ached from that ending, four years later. John’s strained, quiet voice, telling him not to wait for him. Telling him to be happy. It had been devastating after a blissful two years during which they’d managed to spend regular leave times together.

It was Arthur who’d comforted him, who helped him deal with what happened. An open invitation to sleep on his couch whenever he needed to. The first night, Harold had curled up to cry and his friend had let him weep uninterrupted while he brewed a pot of tea. Eventually he’d brought the pot and two cups and sat in his armchair by the couch, arranging the tea things on the low table. Harold had quieted, sitting up to drink the mint tea; its vapor helping to clear his breathing. Unlike Nathan, who groaned about Arthur’s propensity to speak at length, Harold loved to listen to him. He loved the kindness that underscored his friend’s intelligence.

“Blame the army, Harold, not John. The past couple of visits he seemed quieter. It was like a light was dimmed in his eyes. At first I attributed it to the months in the dessert. I don’t think we’ll ever really know what kind of pressures, what kind of action he saw. It was difficult for him, but I think the real problem came with this latest posting.”

“Langley?”

Arthur’s deep brown eyes were full of sympathy, but also a kind of sad conviction. “I know you hoped it meant he wouldn’t be going overseas, but, if he was drafted into service that required a deep cover, he would have to cut ties. And that, my beloved friend, would mean you. I can’t imagine him giving you up for any other reason. I don’t believe he stopped loving you, not for a minute.”

It brought on a fresh spill of tears but made an unhappy kind of sense to Harold. He sipped the hot tea and wiped his eyes. Arthur brought him a blanket and chose a movie, another classic to add to Harold’s film experience index.

“I promise it will be a good one to fall asleep to.” Kubrick’s 2001, A Space Odyssey. Harold did fall asleep, eyes closing to slits as he watched the slow motion action, lulled by the Blue Danube Waltz. The comfortable couch, tea and classic movies, a magically comforting recipe, was always on offer, even if Arthur wasn’t home.

Harold understood that life could require the painful cutting of ties. It didn’t make it any easier to be the one left behind.

His own secret came to light about six months later. More precisely, Arthur figured it out, as he’d once promised he would. And when he did, he told him it was time to share the truth with Nathan.

“He loves you, Harold. He deserves to know who you are. Especially if you’re contemplating a business partnership.”

The night he’d told Nathan the truth about who he was and what he’d done was also the first night they slept together. The relief of unburdening himself, the warmth with which Nathan had accepted his confession, had gone a long way to carrying Harold into his arms. It wasn’t the kind of passion he felt with John, but Harold did not want that. The raw need and force of being with John … it wasn’t something he sought to experience with someone else.

Having sex with Nathan was strange, but not strange. It reminded him a little of having sex with Grace, being with a partner who was a beloved friend. Touching with the tenderness of affection. Nathan was a very attractive man, long and lean, and his body wasn’t unfamiliar to Harold. As with Grace, there was nothing about him that he found unappealing. Sharing the release of orgasm, enjoying the closeness of being held.

Harold had awakened the morning after to find Nathan contemplating him with a certain critical look.

“Today, my darling, you’re going to become … a blond.”

“I’m what?”

“You’ve been hiding but you haven’t done even the simplest thing to change your appearance. You probably look just like your high school yearbook picture right now.” 

Harold felt foolish admitting that was true. His glasses were the next thing Nathan insisted he change. He felt a little surprised every time he looked in the mirror for a while but got used to it. The fashionistas in his life were effusive with praise. 

Ezekiel pretended not to recognize him. “Where’s the little mouse that used to come in here after school?” Then he grinned at Harold. “It’s like the fairy tale where the chipmunk turns into Prince Charming.”

“That doesn’t happen in any fairy tale,” Harold said.

“Well it should. Bellissimo, mon cher.” The mix of Italian and French was a signal that his boss, who hailed from Brooklyn, was very, very pleased.

As a blond, with the DBA, Harold Finch, he and Nathan formed Ingram Finch Technologies. House of Wren, a subsidiary. Business had developed into Nathan’s forte among all the possibilities he explored in grad school. Harold trusted him. He felt too vulnerable for the publicity involved in forming a brand himself, but with IFT, Nathan became the face of it. Harold’s designs, the heart of it. House of Wren was Nathan’s fanciful name for Harold’s consulting business.

“You’re not giving it away for free anymore,” was the law that Nathan laid down. “This is a business.”

While in school Harold had continued to work for Ezekiel, eventually helping him tweak and fine tune designs in addition to a thousand other jobs he did for him. It began with the designer’s curiosity about how Harold created certain looks in his own clothing.

“How did you create this shoulder, dear boy?”

Nothing was secret among the New York houses and people noticed a new crispness and structure in Ezekiel’s line. Models talked, suppliers talked about a youngster with a genius for fine-tuning patterns. Harold found himself being called on, informally, to look over details at a number of studios in the Garment District. Soon he was working with a variety of designers and stylists.

The contact lenses and sunglasses followed when the time came for press concerning their own line. Nathan was more than happy to be the front man of the label but he wanted Harold with him, even if not center stage, for events.

“I look like Andy Warhol,” Harold lamented.

“If he was a young, hot-looking guy, with real hair and gorgeous clothes. In other words, no, my darling, you don’t.”

At first, Nathan was very happy. The first six months or so were smooth, but Harold became aware of a restlessness in his friend and discovered he’d been involved in a string of affairs. He proposed a break.

“Maybe we’re better friends than a couple. If you’re not happy, it doesn’t make any sense, Nathan.”

“Are you jealous?”

“I’m unhappy. I want you to be with me, or … not.”

Harold couldn’t say he was jealous, he wasn’t. Not really. He was happy with their steady, affectionate relationship. It was’t enough for Nathan who characterized their sex life as, “the palest shade of vanilla.” In the beginning it was novel enough, apparently, to satisfy him, but his interest roamed. Every time he came back, crawling into Harold’s bed with loving apologies, Harold took him back.

Not this time, he thought, selecting a chunk of apple from the dish of unappealing fruit. Nathan had been out half the night and come back to the suite with a man named Sydney Baylor. Someone Harold knew was interested in a manufacturing partnership with IFT; potentially much more than a dalliance. Harold felt cheated on personally and threatened by Nathan’s wandering business interest.

He was tired of the struggle. He was tired of not being able to make Nathan happy. The only thing that was still good … were the clothes. It still satisfied him deeply to take good fabric and create clothing that was meticulous, timeless. Everything else in his life might be a mess but he glanced down at his suit and the Italian velvet ensemble was perfect. He’d laid it out the night before in preparation for an interview in the morning with Maxine Angelis. An interview he was now dreading, wondering if Nathan would even show up.

 

***

John knew how to watch, unseen, to blend in a crowd. Harold would never know he was there. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. He’d caught glimpses of him in New York, heart-wrenching views of him going about his life, without him.

The night was cold but he didn’t feel it in the shadows just beyond the press corps and photographers. What he was doing was wrong but he was doing it anyway; to see Harold, to remember.

He’d kept tabs on him easily enough and was not surprised that his talented boy was becoming a renowned designer. He studied the photos that showed up in magazines, always Nathan in the foreground, credited in captions. Behind him, to the side of him, or a slight distance away, would be the enigmatic smaller figure. The blond hair was pretty, John thought, though he missed seeing him as he knew him.

There was a line of limousines, flashes popping, illuminating the celebrities, the beau monde making their entrances. He saw Nathan, tall and unmistakable, followed by a number of others. Not here, he thought, searching the faces, not here, heart aching with disappointment. Then at last, the final person to step out of the long black car, was Harold. Collar up, long blond forelock hanging forward over heavy black-framed glasses. It was him, the body John knew so intimately wasn’t hidden from his loving eyes by any amount of clothing.

It wasn’t enough. But it had to be. He was tempted to swipe an ID and enter the hotel, hungry to see more. He couldn’t chance it. He turned away and found himself face to face with his partner. Kara had followed him. Her expression was a combination of pity and disappointment.

“You can’t keep doing this, John.” She put her arm through his and walked him out of the crowd. He didn’t argue. He didn’t try to defend what he’d done, what he wanted. He had accepted the dictum that they walked in darkness, by necessity. But hidden inside him there was still a small light, the place where Harold lived in his heart.

 

***

 

Grace Hendricks-Casey always showed up early, if she could, for appointments with her dentist. She liked to indulge in the guilty pleasure of fashion magazines, and his office waiting room was always well supplied with up-to-date issues.

Her own approach to style was pretty straight forward but she loved to look at fashion photography. As an artist she delighted in the rich visuals. Chanel was a magical name, the feature pictures were lush and glossy, so evocative of Paris. One moment she was admiring a glittering golden gown and the next she was staring at … Harold.

It was him, it had to be him. His mouth, his lips. She lifted the magazine closer to her face, her heart beating hard in her chest.

It’s my Harold. I know it is. He’s alive, he’s safe. He’s a ... fashion designer. Of course, she thought, a tender kind of wonder coming over her; it was like discovering that a child who’d loved to dance had become a ballerina. The tailor shop, his mother’s sewing. There were tears in her eyes as memories surfaced of Harold mending his father’s clothes, of him painstakingly remaking castoffs into clothes for school. Oh my love; she stroked a fingertip over his picture. And there was his partner, a tall handsome man. His boyfriend, she felt sure.

“Are you alright, Mrs Casey?” the receptionist asked. “There are tissues there beside you.”

“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.” Her face was wet with tears. She took a few tissues to blot at her cheeks, taking a deep breath before looking back at the magazine.

It had occurred to her in the years since she’d left Lassiter and made her life in California, that her young boyfriend might have been gay. He was so different, so utterly different from any man she had been with since. And so much more like some of the gay friends she'd made in art school. Harold had been so elegant, so studied and sweet; his caresses more careful and kind than passionate. She had thought of him often, hoping he was safe, that he was well. Now, she knew he was. It was an incredible blessing to know he wasn’t only safe, he was thriving; not destroyed by a mistake made when he was seventeen.

There were times she wondered if the FBI kept track of her as a matter of course. It seemed hard to believe they would after so many years, but to be safe, she would never speak of this to anyone. She would not reach out to him in any way because even a chance of endangering him was more than she would risk.

Not even to her husband, Daniel, would she speak of her discovery. Daniel, whose love of computers had reminded her of Harold.

She didn’t think anyone who hadn’t kissed those lips or studied them with the loving eyes of a childhood crush, would recognize Harold. Not with all that blond hair and the dark glasses. But she knew him and by the time they called her in for her appointment, her tears had dried, and she was smiling.


	11. Cafe Creme

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short but necessary.

The bell over the cafe door rang and an eddy of chilled air reached Harold. He looked up to see someone tall and broad shouldered had entered. An American, he judged by the clothes that lacked any hint of style. Then the man turned and Harold stared.

Four years had aged his lover from a boy to a man. He was more solid. No longer cropped like a soldier, the color of his hair was a rich dark brown, threaded with hints of premature gray. It suited him beautifully. If anything, Harold thought, he had grown more handsome. Harold wanted to fly to him but sat almost perfectly still, all the racing taking place in his heart. He had ingested Arthur’s assessment that John was living undercover as truth, it kept him from speaking, from acknowledging.

John was staring at him, and stood stock still for a moment before breaking eye contact, heading toward and past him, saying nothing. He passed so close that Harold could have touched him. Heart beating wildly, Harold heard the scrape of a chair at a table somewhere behind him, the voice he knew so well, ordering breakfast in simple French, and asking for directions to the mens room.

John. Impossible. He could hardly breathe. He had to turn. Like Orpheus, he had to look, he had to turn and see … and John was not there! But Harold saw the pair of gloves on the table.

The men’s room. Oh god. Harold rose from his seat on shaky legs, his face felt like it was on fire. He moved carefully toward the back of the cafe and into a short hallway with two restroom doors.

“John,” he whispered, hardly trusting his voice. A door opened at once and Harold was pulled inside. There were no words, John held a finger to his lips. He must fear being heard, even here, Harold thought, studying the beloved face up close, unbidden tears welling up in his eyes.

And then John was kissing him.

Harold couldn’t comprehend how or why this impossible thing was happening but it felt like his whole being was drinking John in.

 

***

For John, the shock robbed him of the ability to think for long seconds. He could only stare, meeting Harold’s eyes for the first time in years. Being seen.

He couldn’t turn away, he couldn’t walk out, which is what he knew he should have done. Get a table. Pray there was a mens room. Trust Harold to follow him there.

Kara had left for Berlin ahead of him. John was left to receive a package and meet her that afternoon. He’d headed out for coffee, something to eat at the closest cafe. It never entered his mind, even as a possibility, that he’d see Harold. Harold’s hotel was more than a mile away.

It was wrong. Worse than following him, worse than tracking him using agency intelligence. Everything about making contact was strictly forbidden. Even if it weren’t forbidden, he’d set Harold free and had no right to touch him, to kiss him. He’d hurt him. Harold should run from him … but he’d seen in his eyes, he wouldn’t run.

Selfish. Wrong. Condemning himself didn’t stop him from listening intently for Harold’s footsteps, mentally urging him to follow. They couldn’t speak. John couldn’t count on not being bugged. Kara was paranoid and good at hiding the tiny transmitters.

He needed hours, days, years but what he had was minutes. The body he wanted was wrapped in so much clothing. John fumbled at buttons as he kissed him, the buckle, the shirt, the incredibly soft silk underwear. Harold’s head fell back against the door. His eyes were misty, his expression sorrowful but full of desire. There was no face in the world like this one, it didn’t matter that the silky bangs were blond instead of brown, that the round wire frames had been replaced by severe black plastic.

John was beyond aroused, his aching hard-on was nothing compared to his need to fill his senses with the tastes and textures of Harold’s body. He’d opened Harold’s clothes all down his front, to lick his bare skin, suck at the flesh of his belly, to adore his cock.

He turned on the water at the sink for some disguise of the sounds they were making but there wasn’t enough force, not enough pressure to cover the heavy breathing and quiet moans, all of it potentially heard by Kara. Let her think I’m jerking off in a bathroom, he thought.

He stroked himself as he kissed and sucked him, and in the breathless whiteout of taking Harold’s cum down his throat, John’s whole body trembled with the force of his own orgasm. He would find his sperm dripping down the base of the bathroom door after he sent Harold away ahead of him.

***

Harold practically ran from the cafe, out into the cold. In the back of a taxi he blotted his eyes with a pocket square only meant just for show. He felt a thousand things and none of them was ready for an interview with a prestigious style reporter.

Angelis was quartered in an apartment owned by the magazine, Paris Beau, her current employer. Nathan had arrived just ahead of him, Harold saw him handing his coat off to an assistant.

He took in the beauty of the place, the antiques, the artwork, details that were centering and impersonal. He felt Nathan’s gaze and met his eyes. It wasn’t possible and yet Harold felt his friend knew what he’d just done and with whom he’d done it.

***

Nathan was relieved that Harold didn’t use the interview with Maxine to announce the dissolution of IFT, a distinct possibility after their fight that morning. He’d expected him to be angry about Sydney. For bringing him to the hotel suite, for one. More than that. He knew Harold didn’t want to market their line on the scale and at the cost of detailing that a contract with Baylor Manufacturing would dictate.

As ineffective as it was, Nathan helplessly resorted to the same ploys over and over, attempting to incite some heat in his lover. There had been reunions that were sweet in Nathan’s memory, when Harold’s warmth had approached passion.

“The Chanel commemoration was a great honor,” Nathan said, reading from an inner script that he’d perfected for describing the flavor and major themes of Harold’s designs. But his eyes were reading his partner, seeing danger signs. Harold looked like he’d just been ravished, hair adorably mussed and finger-brushed, his skin flushed and his lips a little swollen, reddened, all his clothes in place but subtly askew. Like someone had blurred him all over with … kisses.

Even Maxine was looking at Harold with piqued interest and a kind of warmth. She’d ordered him a cafe creme and Nathan saw her watching him sip it instead of focusing on him as he spoke.

Not good at all.

Where Nathan had expected quiet disdain, lingering reproach, he saw a dazed look and a vague apology. Sadness. All of these things pointed in one impossible direction.

In all their years together, Harold had never had an affair, an encounter. He seemed inhumanly uninterested in sex beyond an affectionate tumble once or twice a week. There had only been one and he’d left his indelible imprint.

Harold’s like a fucking penguin, Nathan thought, mated for life and not with him. Somehow, some way, in the past hour and a half, he was convinced that Harold had reunited with John.


	12. Truffaut

Maxine Angelis zeroed in at the end of the interview, questioning them about a rumored deal with Baylor Manufacturing. Harold tensed, waiting for Nathan’s answer.

“A ready-to-wear line doesn’t make any sense right now. It’s definitely not on the table. IFT’s signature is in its custom details and finishes. There could be a separate endeavor somewhere along the line, but not for the IFT brand.”

Harold was amazed to hear him say this and afterwards, on the street in front of the magazine offices, he said, “You changed your mind about the deal with Baylor.” He was baffled, but grateful.

“I never seriously considered it.” A car had pulled up at the curb for them. “Are you coming back to the hotel, Harold … or meeting John.”

It stunned him even though he’d imagined Nathan knew.

He didn’t answer. He got in the car and they were silent through the ride. Harold knew they had to talk, but he wasn’t ready. Nathan's about face on Baylor was confusing and Harold was too caught up in what had happened with John to think clearly.

It was as if he’d been made love to by a ghost. John was no more real a part of his life now than he had been before … and yet, he was. Distance meant nothing. Time meant nothing. His mind sank back into luscious kisses, the heat from his throat to his groin. John’s mouth. Stop, he told himself, feeling his cock stir uncomfortably in confinement. He stared out the window. Tiny snowflakes were swirling from a darkened sky.

Housekeeping had set their hotel suite to rights. There were new flowers, and a pile of congratulatory gifts on the coffee table. Harold, with nothing but a little fruit and coffee in his stomach, looked wistfully at a box of chocolates.

“I did see him.” He admitted it because it was too hard to lie to Nathan. He watched him pour a drink and when Nathan looked at him, holding the bottle aloft, Harold nodded. For once, he’d join him in a glass of the expensive scotch Nathan favored.

“It wasn’t planned," Harold said. "We saw each other by chance and … he’s gone. I have no idea when I’ll see him again, if ever.”

“Chance? I doubt that. He has a way of … showing up.” Nathan sat down near him and handed him the glass. Harold wanted to steer the conversation away from John.

“Why did you lead me to believe you wanted to partner with Baylor, Nathan? What was the point of that?”

“Why do I do anything Harold? For a smack on the nose, for some sign that I matter to you.”

“That’s … ridiculous. Of course you matter. You’re my partner, my best friend, and when you weren’t wandering off in search of god knows what, we were lovers. How could you possibly need reassurance that you matter?”

This wasn’t the first time Nathan had raised this issue and it made Harold a little crazy. How could someone as confident, attractive, and smart as Nathan, someone he cared about so much, need to be reassured by anger and jealousy?

“This morning,” Nathan said, “before you stormed out, you told me you’re done. With the business — I assume we’re not done. With us. I don’t want it to be over.”

This was brutal, like every other time Nathan asked for forgiveness. It was painful to say no to him.

“Don’t you think it should be, Nathan?”

“What should be and what I want aren’t the same thing.”

“You want it and then you’re not satisfied by it.”

Harold looked at his friend who was gazing thoughtfully into his glass. Maybe it was just having seen John that made Harold suddenly see something that he realized should have been plain to him long ago. “I love you, but I think you want something I have no power to give. I can’t … excise John.”

“Not when the bastard magically appears every time I think he’s gone for good.”

“Oh Nathan.” It was too much. To take this on while still undone from the sudden encounter … he wanted to find a dark place and hide. “Whether I see him or not, it doesn't matter. I don’t stop loving him.”

 

***

 

Harold had just admitted that John was written in stone. 

Why do I fight it?

Even now, hearing it spoken aloud and unequivocally, still seeing the effects of it, Nathan wanted him. He wanted to hold him. Harold had the slightly broken look that John always left in his wake and Nathan wanted to mend him.

He’s like my bear, he thought. As a kid he’d coveted a toy that belonged to his brother David. His older brother was rough with it, having outgrown it. He’d torn its neck with his rough play and taunted Nathan with it, setting it up high on his dresser where he couldn’t reach. Nathan had finally figured out how to drag a chair over and climb up to steal it. He’d hidden it in a drawer where his mother found it. She’d mended the neck and announced to the family that the bear was now Nathan’s. He still remembered the ecstasy of possessing it, kissing it, seeing its head on his pillow. It still lived in a place of honor on a shelf in his childhood room.

“I am … starving,” he said, setting his glass down. “I’m guessing you are too.”

Harold looked up at him, confused by this shift in gears, but also looking relieved.

“Here’s a plan,” he told him. “You go take a shower, put your pajamas on and I’ll order room service. It should be here by the time you’re out. We’ll eat, then we’ll climb in that giant bed and find some godawful classic movie to watch. We’ll figure it out, Harold.” The gratitude in his friend’s eyes made Nathan weak with loving him. “You can even call me Arthur if you want to.”

Once again, he balanced what he could have against the ideal of what he wanted. The equation was more clearly defined now, which made it curiously, less painful. He wished a supreme being (like his mother) could appear and declare that Harold now belonged to him. That would not happen. The soldier, unlike Nathan’s brother, loved this bear in spite of how Nathan believed he abused him. He could appear at any time and take him back. But he wasn't here now. Nathan could hold him in the meantime, even if it was only as a friend. He could pet him, see his head on the pillow. He could gaze in his eyes and shower him with love and make sure nothing hurt the broken places.

 

***

Harold wondered where John was, what he was doing, if he was feeling the same ache of longing. He kissed him in his mind and turned his face up into the spray of the shower to feel the heat ease the tension around his eyes; he opened his mouth to fill with water and flush out the taste of the scotch.

Things were not settled with Nathan but the temporary cease fire was good enough for now. It would see them through the moment. The man was infuriating and charming in equal measure. Harold was grateful for the offered comfort.

It was very good to eat and to curl up in bed with snow falling out the window.

“Arthur would approve of this choice,” Nathan assured him, fitting himself close behind him. On the screen of the suite’s extravagant television, the black and white images of a classic French film began. Truffaut’s Jules et Jim, the story of two beautiful men in love with the same woman. Harold tried to stay awake, drawn in by the story, but his eyes grew heavy and he sank back in Nathan’s arms. His friend’s body was warm and familiar around him.


	13. Apology and Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intermission!

Sorry, sorry for the confusion of deleting such a large chunk of this story (chapters 13 - 17.) I don't know if the re-write will resemble those chapters in any way or even be an improvement! I'm going to try to hold off posting until the story is complete so I can guarantee no more fooling around with it. I often re-read my stories (which is why it's so important that I like them!) and I often do minor editing after posting but this is the first time I've felt the need for a major overhaul. I was unhappy with the pacing and tone, especially, which did not match the first dozen chapters. I also wasn't convinced I took the plot in the right direction.

Anyway, thanks for reading the story and sorry again for the confusion. Apologies in advance to any readers who preferred the original deleted material -- it can be found in its own posting as "Alternate Chapters From House Of Wren" EITD


	14. Bosphorus

John fell back on the discipline of his training to move casually through the cafe after Harold left. To sit down and eat the food that had been brought to his table. He did not even let his eyes dwell on the place where Harold had been sitting.

It was only when he reached his hotel room that he caved. Head in his hands, he submerged himself in every detail he could recall from the moment he’d entered the cafe, turned and met Harold’s eyes. He replayed even the tension of waiting, the faint whispered sound of his name. The taste, the feel of Harold’s mouth, the velvet of his clothing, the silk of his skin.

By the time he checked out and was headed for the package handoff, he had committed every detail, every sensation to memory. It was stored deep, with his other memories of Harold. These were his sustenance.

 

***

Harold’s plan was to lose himself in work when he got home. Work had always saved him in the past but he was having trouble. The Chanel show had generated an instant flurry of orders. IFT was flooded with demands from West Coast stylists who wanted pieces from the runway for the Oscars, the culmination of the awards season. Harold couldn’t make himself get started … he could hardly make himself get out of bed.

When he and Nathan were living as a couple, the top floor, what had once been Arthur’s apartment, was their bedroom. The redesigned second floor was their kitchen, dining and living room. When they weren’t functioning as a couple, Harold retreated to the first floor. He had his workroom with the daybed at the front, and the original small kitchen and bathroom in back. He’d been living downstairs since Paris.

The small bed felt secure but lonely. He’d gotten up to use the bathroom, taken a look outside at the heavy gray skies, and decided to get back under the warm covers, not ready to face the day. He heard Nathan on the stairs and thought briefly that this was a good enough reason to get himself out of bed, but didn’t stir.

Nathan was not an early riser. Usually, when Nathan was up before he was, it was because he wanted to find him still in bed. If he got up now, he thought, there would be none of the blurring that happened so easily. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to resist it.

The encounter with John had shaken him loose from defenses he’d carefully shaped in order to live his life without him. Impossible to repair. It was like finding himself in a broken cocoon or shell, there was no way back in and no joy in emerging. John had already vanished.

He was tempted to take physical comfort from Nathan. If only to feel grounded again.

Harold watched him approach through the semi-dark of the shuttered room. He accepted his presence; wanted to be touched. Nathan saw him watching and smiled, heading for the bed.

He was dressed; his jeans and tee-shirt brought a chill into the warm covers where he tucked himself in close behind Harold, between his back and the wall. The clothes, Harold knew, were his way of saying — nothing to worry about, I’m not stealing naked into your bed.

“Sunshine, Harold. That’s what we need.” His arm slid under Harold’s pillow, his free hand stroked his arm, his hip. “Coffee on a terrace under blue skies.”

He tried to see the picture Nathan painted. He could feel the barest suggestive pressure, Nathan moving against him as if fitting himself more comfortably, his erection perceptible through his jeans. Probably, in his back pocket was a condom, a small of tube of lubricant. Harold drew in a deep breath, closing his eyes.

 

***

 

His friend was not in a good way and Nathan wasn’t sure what to do about it. He knew what he wanted to do, but could practically hear Arthur in his head, telling him it wasn’t a good idea, wasn’t what Harold needed.

Something needed doing. Everyone at work was excited about the press reviews from Paris and the orders and inquiries coming in … but there was no Harold. He hadn’t even set foot in the workroom at IFT.

Nathan’s own state of mind wasn’t the best. His sleep was uneven since they’d gotten home and Harold had burrowed into the first floor studio. In the small hours of the third night he’d gotten the idea of a trip, of warm temperatures, sun and blue skies. Wide awake much too early, he’d gotten up and showered, thrown on some clothes and headed downstairs to sell the idea to his partner. While he was at it, he thought, he’d try to sell him on a little bit more.

Nathan was aroused by the thought of what more he might get. It was always a gamble to sneak into his friend’s bed after they’d gone through a bad stretch. Not always a success, in sexual terms anyway. Sometimes his presence was tolerated and Harold let himself be pet a little, be held. Sometimes Nathan got much more and it meant he’d been forgiven.

He loved to fuck in the morning when Harold was sleepy and receptive, before his mental wheels were fully spun up and running for the day. This is what he was hoping for.

“We could spend a week or two,” he said. Encouraged by the lack of resistance, he ran his hand down Harold’s thigh. Not touching his cock, but stroking close by.

“Maybe.” Harold turned in his arms, to look up at him. “Are we really going to start this again?” So much for easing into possibilities.

Nathan didn’t want to discuss it, he wanted to do it and see where it took them. Especially now, looking down into Harold’s sleepy face, wanting to kiss him, wanting to shimmy out of his jeans and free his cock.

“How about … yes, this morning, this time.”

Harold frowned. Nathan was afraid he’d pushed in a direction that was too un-Harold-like but the brow smoothed and his friend sighed.

“Okay. This morning. This time.”

 

***

Harold had hoped that it would stop the feeling he was coming apart. To a certain extent it accomplished that. At the start he was somewhat aroused but couldn’t find purchase in the familiar tracks.

Maybe a movie, a good cry and a cup of mint tea would have worked better. But the real comfort in Arthur’s comfort recipe was Arthur himself and he was currently somewhere in Virginia, elbows deep in a classified project. Nathan was here.

The penetration was gentle enough, the weight of his body somewhat comforting, but Harold got no release. He was too lost in his thoughts, his body no more than tolerating the act.

The way it did help him was making plain what wouldn’t work. When Nathan withdrew and slumped back beside him, Harold sat up and tended to him, carefully taking the condom and drawing the covers up over him.

“You didn’t come,” Nathan sighed. “Let me take care of you.”

“I’m okay,” Harold told him. He felt tender toward his friend, grateful for the steadfast way he loved him, even if sometimes misguidedly. He leaned down to kiss his forehead. “We tried. I don’t think we should do this again, Nathan.”

 

***

Nathan was grateful for the kiss, the tender handling. Though Harold was always a somewhat passive lover, he’d sensed his distance and waning arousal and feared that the sex was only making things worse. Harold’s affection afterwards was reassuring; it meant he hadn’t totally blundered, hadn’t sacrificed friendship for bad sex.

It felt like a page turning. Nathan didn’t follow him when Harold said he was going to shower, as he would have if they were patching things up as a couple. He didn’t feel like he needed to try another tack, a different way to reach him. He’d reached him.

He found his discarded jeans. Straightened the small bed.

Something had changed. As he headed upstairs, Nathan thought back on their talk in Paris. Harold hadn’t refused him, or rejected him. He gave everything he had to give … and it was a lot.

We did try, he thought. He tried as hard as I did and it isn’t there. What they did have was their friendship and that had never come and gone, it was solid ground.

 

***

 

When the time came, a month later, Harold decided not to make the trip to LA with Nathan. His assistant Andre agreed to go in his place. Harold suspected there was something brewing between his assistant and his partner. In a general way, he approved, as long Nathan took it seriously enough.

“Andre is a very sweet person, he’s a talented person. He works very hard and I want him back here safe and sound after this trip. He’s very important to me, Nathan.” They were in the work room, double checking the packing lists. Andre had gone out to pick up something to bring back for dinner.

“Yes, mother.” Nathan gave him a look.

“Yes, very funny. Just … please be careful.”

“I have every intention of returning him to you in perfect condition.”

Harold thought he meant it, in spite of his light tone.

Andre Cooper was Harold’s primary assistant. His background was as unlikely as Harold’s for the industry they worked in. The docks and longshoreman’s union were probably even less likely than MIT to produce a fashion designer. It made for something of a bond between them. Harold had picked up on the solidity of Andre among a throng of apprentices and interns, much as Ezekiel had once picked him out from a crowd of young hopefuls.

Now he found him indispensable. Harold trusted him to manage Nathan and keep priorities straight in LA.

Harold had his own priorities, reasons for not making the trip. There was work he wanted to do on his own.

While his partner and assistant were boarding a flight to the west coast, Harold was closing the blinds and shutters in his studio at home and uncovering his hidden workspace. Two of the many shelving units that held stacks of fabric were mounted on hinges. In the concealed space behind them, Harold stashed his computer equipment. Nathan had scoffed at this security measure when he’d put it in place a number of years before. He’d done it when he took on freelance work for Arthur.

“Only the paranoid survive,” Harold had said.

“But you’re not working on anything dangerous, are you?”

Harold had assured him he wasn’t.

“Sensitive, not dangerous.”

“Arthur’s got a lot of nerve drawing you back into this business.”

Harold, aware that Arthur ranked second only to John on Nathan’s list of unwelcome influences, kept any tech work he did hidden from him after that. As he set up the secure laptop and connected the external drives it occurred to him that it was probably time to find a new place to live. Both he and Nathan needed more room, more distance.

What he was planning to do now was something that Arthur would disapprove of as much as Nathan would. Something Arthur had flatly forbidden him to do when he suspected Harold might be tempted. The matter had come up between them a long time ago, after Harold had asked if it were possible for Arthur to obtain information about John through his intelligence contacts.

“It isn’t possible. And don’t even think about practicing your hacking skills on the CIA. I warn you, Harold. There’s a reason his work is covert. You’ve nothing to gain by breaking in and everything to lose, starting with your peace of mind.”

Harold was no longer a seventeen year-old boy crashing like a bull through the inadequate security of the US government’s infant web structures. His skills were sharper than a surgeon’s and his own security was formidable. His need was great and with a mental apology to his friend, he navigated undetected through the classified files of the Central Intelligence Agency.

He wanted to know where John was. What he was doing.

What he discovered was that Arthur was right. Knowing where John was only added specificity to the ache in his heart. What he was doing — the nature of his missions was buried in complex coding that would require some work to decipher.

What did you expect, he asked himself, staring at the useless information on his screen. He’d hoped that knowing where John was would make him feel closer to him. It didn’t. If he were to decode the mission briefs, he knew that information was likely to be terrifying. John’s work was dangerous.

He thought of his lover as he’d been in the beginning, here in this house, the two of them naked on the floor upstairs, eating Chinese food. John telling him he wouldn’t have joined the army if he’d wanted to avoid danger.

Harold wished he could go back in time. Plead. Beg. Do something that would stop John from making the choices that took him away from him.

He shut down the computer.

 

***

The basement was hot, damp; the stone walls crumbling. It was possible, John thought, he would die here. Death wasn’t something he feared. Kara knew that. Pain was a thing he could withstand. She knew that too and if she’d had any doubts she’d laid them to rest with her needles, her knife and her pliers. Now she had her gun in hand.

“You let me down, John.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t, through the bloody gag. She was done trying to get information. This was revenge, this was her pleasure.

All he’d felt was a brief sting at the back of his neck before waking up in this basement, arms wrenched behind him, handcuffed to a chair.

He’d brought this on himself.

It all began with the package in Paris. Instructions to monitor his partner. She was compromised and he was tasked with uncovering her contacts.

Always paranoid, she’d caught him tracking her in Berlin, cornered him in a doorway. He’d managed to pass it off that time.

“Why are you following me, John?”

“Maybe I’m curious about who you’re fucking,” he told her. She’d given him her sly flirtatious smile.

“I could be fucking you.” She took him into a bar on the next street and they’d ended up doing some serious drinking that led to a nearby hotel room.

He’d been working with Kara Stanton for almost two years. Sex, when it happened between them, was a power thing, not intimate. There was usually liquor involved, tension, and challenge. Kara was a disturbing mix of tight control and recklessness. She had a taste for both giving and receiving pain. 

He sensed her guard was up after Berlin. She was careful and he had moments of doubt; still trusting her to have his back even when he knew she might be dealing information; trafficking.

It was in Istanbul that he slipped up. He’d gotten the kill order … and hesitated; following her one last time, hoping to nail the contact to justify the fact that he hadn’t put a bullet in her head. He had no one but himself to blame for where he’d ended up.

“You don’t follow me to find out who I fuck.” Her dark eyes scanned his, trying to read him. A deceptively gentle hand was stroking through his hair. He was beyond any sensation she could administer, inhabiting an inner space that was deep and intensely alert. “They know. Don’t they, John.” She smiled and shook her head slowly. “Poor baby, did they tell you to retire me? You never could handle the tough jobs.”

She was wrong about that. Killing was something he was very good at … but there was nothing in it he relished. He knew she mistook it for weakness. Her weakness was a passion for it and therein lay his chance, he thought. His chance to get out of this basement. Subdue her and escape. A chance he was waiting on. She was toying with him needlessly because it turned her on and with each passing moment his chances were improving.

Kara knew all the places he hid weapons on his body and she’d disarmed him completely while he was passed out. She didn’t know about the wire embedded in the cuff of his shirt.

Her crony, a man called Hans, had been coming and going. He was armed but restless, no tolerance for the torture; checking his phone, watching the door. Twice he’d stepped out and come back in, urging her to wrap things up. She’d waved him off, telling him to relax. John wondered if the guy was second guessing his decision to deal with her. The next time Hans slipped out John would make his move, he’d have the cuffs open. There was no eagerness in him to kill her. Despite everything, a part of him still saw her as his partner, someone he’d defended and been defended by.

He didn’t flinch from her gaze, letting her read what she could in his eyes. His sorrow for what they’d come to. His acceptance of pain or death, whatever she planned for him.

“Let’s think this through, John. You can take the pain. But I wonder,” she said, leaning in closer. “If your little boy toy lost a few teeth … a couple of toes. Harold. That’s his name. It’s so sad when the innocent suffer. Are you still ready to die knowing I can reach him when you’re gone?”

John felt his mouth curve in an involuntary smile around the bloody gag as his vision turned red, a blinding flame rising from his heart. In the next second he’d twisted her neck and flung her body at Hans. The young German staggered and fell backwards. By the time he hit the ground John had her gun and had shot him.

On numbed, bloody feet he climbed a narrow stairway in the dark. A warm, moonless summer night. A rubble-strewn slum to the east of the Bosphorus, he could smell the water. He’d barely turned down the next alley when the world exploded behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I'd wait until I'd finished the story to post but ... I guess I'm just not made that way. I do hope to finish without any more major editing upheavals. Thank you for reading!


	15. Kung Pao

Finding a new home was something of a project but Harold was in need of a project that spring. The building he fell in love with had once been a library, now decommissioned and in complete disarray. The floors were littered with tumbled shelving and thousands of books, most of them sadly unsalvageable. Nathan thought he was out of his mind when Harold showed him the property.

“I said you should invest in real estate, not a rat-infested medieval fortress. Luxury condos, Harold. One to live in, one to rent out. Even if you were a developer, which you’re not, this place has no potential. You can’t create apartments here.”

He waved his arm, gesturing at the vast marble stairs and tall ceilings. “That’s all unusable space. You’d have to find a crazy person with a shitload of money to ever make your investment back on this place.”

“It’s for me, Nathan. In a manner of speaking, anyway. I’m buying it through a subsidiary of Hanson Crane, but it’s for me to live in.”

His friend stared at him in the hazy light, it was all that filtered through the construction shrouds that draped the building. Nathan shook his head slowly.

“I knew you weren’t hurting for money, Harold, but if you can afford to renovate this place … just to live in, you’re doing a whole lot better than I imagined.“ His expression was giving way to a look of wonder that made Harold uncomfortable.

“I’m good with computers. It’s … been lucrative.“ There was a rustling, of mice or rats, near them in the debris.

“Well I’m grateful to hear it’s done something besides ruin your eyesight. This place is making my skin crawl. Let’s go for a drink and see if I can’t talk some sense into you.”

Harold agreed to go for the drink but he wouldn’t change his mind. He was sorry his friend didn’t see the beauty of the place but he’d already started the process of acquiring it.

Harold had not been hurting for money for quite some time. Though he and Nathan were making money through IFT and House Of Wren, they both had separate pursuits. Nathan, through family connections. Harold, through Arthur. Arthur had funneled more money to him than Nathan was aware of; under various names and a variety of business entities. It was income from contracts and grants based on their projects. These assets alone amounted to more wealth than Harold had ever contemplated. But it was his tinkering with investment algorithms that had proved embarrassingly successful. So successful he’d shut them down before he could attract unwanted attention, breaking them into ever smaller endeavors that required their own applications to keep track of.

 

***

“To Hanson Crane,” Nathan toasted his friend. “At least one of your DBAs isn’t named Harold. I guess you do listen to my advice once in a while.”

Nathan studied him in the bar’s soft light. He felt a little guilty that he’d been so wrapped up in the flush of a new relationship. He and Andre had just signed papers on a loft in Tribeca. IFT’s success, with all its attendant media obligations had also claimed a lot of his attention. He hadn’t been keeping as close tabs on Harold as he should. He wished that his friend would meet someone (preferably nothing like John.) Someone stable, someone worthy of him, though he could think of no one good enough.

Harold was never what Nathan would consider care-free; his nature somehow too serious for that, but the winter had cast a pall over him that still lingered. It was unnerving to think it could all be laid at the feet of the soldier but Nathan was hard-pressed to think of any other reason.

He’d thought Harold was doing all right at work; the designs he’d put together for the fall line were beautiful, if somber. It was hard to think of autumn in the spring, but Nathan was finally becoming accustomed to how far in advance the fashion industry worked. Sitting here now, taking a good look at him, he thought he looked like he hadn’t been sleeping well, or eating enough. There was always an undercurrent to Harold, a sense, as long as Nathan had known him, that he harbored sorrow, just out of sight. It could be overlaid with pleasure, with happiness, but just now it seemed to be closer to the surface. As ever, it tugged at Nathan’s desire to mend him, to take care of him.

Harold set his drink down.

“You’ve got that look on your face like you’re worrying, Nathan. I’m fine. And, of course, I listen to your advice.”

“But you’re going to buy that monstrosity anyway.”

“I am,” he admitted. “I do have another piece of news. Arthur’s been in touch. He’s moving back here some time this summer.”

Much as Nathan had resented Arthur off and on through the years, he thought this might be a good thing. There was no denying the friendship between the two computer geniuses and it might draw Harold out of whatever it was that was clouding him.

 

***

 

Arthur was looking forward to the move back to New York. He missed Harold, he missed the city, he missed art house movie theaters and good Chinese food. His current government project was winding down and he’d gotten a corporate grant that would take him back to Manhattan. What’s more, he knew it was a project that would fascinate his friend.

Among the last things he did before closing up shop in Virginia was look into files he had no business looking into. Years before, he’d told Harold that he couldn’t obtain information about John. It wasn’t strictly true. There were things he could find out, the very things he’d warned Harold not to look for, agent location and status.

He’d meant it when he told Harold that no good could come of knowing what John was doing or where he was and yet he’d loosely kept track of him. Though he worried about John, the information didn’t cause him the level of anguish that he knew it would cause Harold. That was his justification. It proved to be a bit of self-delusion.

What he discovered when he took a last look into John’s file made him wish he’d heeded his own advice. It also made him wish he were headed anywhere but New York, to see Harold. The knowledge of John’s death was like a physical blow. The images were seared in his memory, the charred bone and tooth fragments; all that was left of the man Harold loved. 

 

***

 

Navigation, security sweeps, deck watches. Even when the ships entered pirate-infested waters, working freighters was an easy stretch for John. He’d heard the massive ships described as waterborne prisons: cramped quarters, confinement, the violence of men living out of the reach of the law. Mind-numbing routine. It suited him. Some of his best vacations, he thought with a grim smile, had been in prison.

Climbing thirty to sixty foot aluminum ladders over seas of stacked containers … he figured this would strengthen his feet and fine tune his balance. The missing toes, the last two on his right foot and the big toe on the left. There was some irony, he thought, in his ABS designation, able bodied seaman. For six months he inhabited this limbo, moving slowly but inexorably toward home. He had to go back but he couldn’t afford to get there before he knew what the fuck he was doing.

In Singapore, where brothels siphoned off months' worth of his shipmates’ wages, John was holed up with a stolen laptop at an internet cafe. Impossible on board ship. Internet access was limited and easily traced. He did this in every port of call. Cautiously, he searched agency web streams, looking for news of his death. A strange elation touched his heart when he discovered his own coded obituary; a floating sensation, slightly unreal but free. Finally. They must have found enough DNA, teeth and bone fragments to convince them he’d died with his partner in that basement.

What he still didn’t know, was whether it was his own people or Kara’s that had triggered the blast. There was circumstantial evidence that whoever she was dealing with had a plan B, to bring the curtain down on her. Her nervous contact, Hans. The man’s constant phone checks and growing urgency made John think he’d known the basement was wired to blow. On the other hand, one of Kara’s mind games had stuck with him, one thing that had a flavor of truth. She’d claimed she had also been charged with monitoring him. Probably a ploy, but … possible. The agency didn’t tolerate loose ends.

It was time to return to the states. He needed to reach Harold. It was all he wanted. He wasn’t worthy of the man, could only endanger him and yet, without him, what was there? Somehow, by the time he docked in San Francisco, he would come up with a workable plan.

He spilled a small libation of his beer over the keyboard to fry it and ordered a bowl of Kung Pao noodles with his second beer. The meal was a touchstone, he allowed it from time to time. He needed it now. The chilies were hot enough to make him sweat, to transport him to a very warm room where his young lover sat naked beside him, feeding him, kissing him, touching him. There was no going back in time but certain things … were timeless.


	16. Ask

Arthur stopped at a place called Video Village. Nice place for Harold to have in his new neighborhood, just the sort of place he liked himself, with an abundance of independent and foreign films. He was on his way to see his friend, at last; looking forward to it and yet slightly anxious. The video store was his last procrastination, only blocks from his destination.

He’d originally projected his arrival time in the summer but the move was taking longer to work out than expected, loose ends in Virginia for his girlfriend Diane and she still hadn’t decided on an apartment in the city. She was due to come up the following weekend for some intensive apartment hunting. Arthur had come ahead, just for an overnight, to meet with Logan Pierce, a major investor in the corporate grant he’d been offered. Harold had insisted he stay with him.

“I have a guest room with your name on it, Arthur.” 

The time delay in moving had helped him come to a decision. He would keep the painful information he’d uncovered about John, to himself. It was knowledge he shouldn’t possess. If the agency made it public, which he doubted would happen, he’d help his friend cope.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure how well this decision would hold up when he actually found himself face to face with Harold. A movie might be a good thing to have with him … but what movie could possibly console someone suffering such a loss. There was none, obviously. But he found himself in the classic film section where he picked out a title, Lilies Of The Field. Sidney Poitier in his 1963 Oscar-winning role; Arthur had never seen it. It could be watched purely for entertainment, he thought, it didn’t mean he intended to be comforting Harold.

The day was brisk with a mix of sun and clouds, golden autumn light. It made the busy neighborhood seem even more appealing, he thought. He and Diane should think about looking for a place nearby.

The building with the construction tarps. That’s how Harold had described it and Arthur stopped, looking down the street at an impressive facade, partially obscured by scaffolding and shrouds. Amazing, he thought. His friend had moved from a hobbit-hole into an urban mansion.

A beautiful place, at the crossing of two lovely streets, what could be better? He scanned the block: coffee shop, bakery. His gaze stopped. A tall man, some ten feet ahead of him drew his eyes, he was turning his back on Arthur, baseball cap on his head with the visor angled down. Apparently looking in the doorway of a travel agency. There was something about him. Arthur’s mind scanned back like a video on rewind to see what his peripheral vision had captured before the man turned.

His feet were already carrying him toward the stranger as he tried to comprehend what he’d seen. It couldn’t be him … but his pounding heart was sure even before the eyes met his in the window’s reflection. John turned slowly around to face him.

Arthur couldn’t speak through the knot in his throat and his eyes were blurring with tears as he reached out to grasp his arm.

 

***

He’d arrived on a red eye from San Francisco the day before. The plan was no plan. To be near him, to see him. John couldn’t bring the future into focus or reconcile need and want. He had no more right to crash into Harold’s life than before. Nothing to offer him. Being close would have to be enough. Life after death would be a shadow … but it could be lived in orbit around the light.

His first destination was the familiar brownstone in the Village. Just the sight of it eased his heart, brought him a glow of warmth. He watched from a rooftop across the street. They were all gone. It was disturbing to see strangers emerge from doorways that should have opened to show him Harold, Arthur … and Nathan, the man who had what he wanted.

John backtracked to IFT, an easier neighborhood to surveil with its mix of industrial buildings and commercial vehicles parked on the street. It took all day, but his quarry appeared at twilight and John followed him, “borrowing” a car he’d already scouted, when Harold got into a taxi.

Harold’s home. He watched him disappear into a curtain of construction tarps and then saw lights come on in the upper story. Incredible, that he lived in such a place. John surveilled the remarkable building through the night, disarmed by how difficult it was to track all possible entries and exits, frustrated that there was no angle from which he could see inside. In the middle of the night he’d slipped into the curtained alley to relieve himself and then resigned himself to wait down the street. It was most likely that Harold would come out the way he’d gone in.

Mid morning, Harold had still not come out. John had grown restless, careless, nearly forgetting to watch his own back. He looked behind him … and recognized Arthur. His hair was less wild and he was quite a bit stouter, and by the time John took this in it was already too late to hide, though he quickly turned away. Of all people.

A part of him welcomed this kind man as he watched his approach in reflection; someone who loved Harold. Someone who knew him, who’d understood, as well as a civilian could, the choices John had made.

Arthur’s distress. The hand clutching his arm as if to convince himself he was real could only mean one thing. He’d seen agency files and thought he was dead. John had suspected in the beginning that Arthur knew too much about Langley, that he might have agency contacts. He’d never suspected that his knowledge ran deep enough to penetrate his cover.

He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, drawing him in close as the full implications unfolded.

He spoke low, near Arthur’s ear.

“Harold … “ If Harold thought he was dead he should walk away now. A sharp, decisive action, unequivocal, correct. A dagger in his heart … but clear of doubt.

“No, no,” Arthur said, stopping him, his voice a choked whisper. “He doesn’t know. But you must come with me. Come with me, John, please. He’s suffering.”

“What do you mean?” Alarms sounded inside him and the air became harder to breathe.

“Look where you are,” Arthur said, as if stating the obvious. “Hiding, hoping to see him. Do you think he longs for you … any less?” John stared into the man’s eyes, trying to balance this view of Harold with his own. He did believe, to his core, that Harold loved him. He also believed he lived a full, satisfying life without him … with Nathan, in friendship, as lovers.

“Where’s Nathan?” It came to him that he’d yet to see him, the partner who always appeared; living with Harold, traveling with him, appearing in every photograph of him. Even when Harold was his … he’d sensed Nathan waiting in the wings.

“Nathan?” Arthur said, as if his whereabouts were of no significance. “I presume he’s with his boyfriend, Andre.”

 

***

Harold lavished a lot of love and attention on his new home. If it hadn’t made him happy, it had at least kept him from spiraling into a deeper layer of despair. It kept him busy, creating a new sewing and design studio for himself in the luxurious space on the main floor, creating a tech center upstairs that he hoped would delight Arthur. Bedrooms for himself and guests, a decent kitchen. As of yet he was very much alone there and at times felt small, traveling the interior distances.

It surprised him to hear Nathan express interest in when Arthur was coming back. Then he realized it was a sign of his worrying. He tried to make more of an effort to convince his friend that he was doing all right. 

I am all right. I’m functioning, he thought. Spring had given way to summer and he got out of bed every morning. Summer was passing. It was August and the library was close to complete though the protective construction shrouds were still in place. He’d become used to them and wasn’t looking forward to removing the protective veil they offered between him and the rest of the world.

He sighed, opening a box of sample fabric he’d ordered. It was produced for him, to his specifications, by a small mill in upstate New York. An expensive process. Harold had never experimented with print fabric before and was very curious to see the result. The fabric was destined for next year's autumn line, if he liked it, but he thought he might construct something in it for himself, much sooner.

A subtle effect of blending dark hues. Nathan had dubbed the design in progress, funereal paisley. It wasn’t paisley. Unfolding the sample on his work table, Harold saw what it was, what he hadn’t perceived in his sketches. It was a camouflage pattern, so subtle it was difficult to discern in the dark palette of blues and charcoal gray. Harold ran his fingertips over the wool, understanding he’d created an unconscious homage to John.

Nathan had begun pushing him to date, to try to meet someone. It was the last thing in the world Harold wanted. He’d responded to the pressure with a noncommittal, maybe, just to get him to drop the subject.

What he wanted, who he wanted, the truth asserted itself whether he willed it or not, he thought, caressing the cloth. I have already met someone, the best someone.

The completed suit hung in his tech workroom now, from a hook beside one of the bookcases. It was too early in the season to wear yet but he liked to look up from his computer and see it. Ready for the first wintry day to arrive.

Though he had sworn off infiltrating CIA files, there was someone he’d begun to keep track of and that was Grace. She had a website now, including a gallery of her work that he loved to look through. Harold had acquired a couple of her paintings, anonymously, through an art broker. One was a small watercolor of a sparrow. The other was a landscape that reminded him of the fields that surrounded their hometown of Lassiter. The biography on her website wasn’t extensive but he’d read it many times, pleased by thinking about her marriage, her children. He was looking at new works of hers when Arthur arrived.

He saw his friend’s face in the monitor … but he wasn’t alone.

 

***

For John, entering the place was like walking into a dream, soft light pouring over marble. Harold was a storybook prince in his beautiful clothes, a tie knotted just so under his chin. He stood poised at the top of a grand stairway with the light shining on his hair.

Arthur had said he was suffering and John could see as he got closer what he hadn’t seen before. Sadness that became visible as it was falling away. John saw him blinking on tears, his cheeks bright with a chaotic blush. He was holding out his hands.

“You’re here.” Harold breathed the words. “I can’t believe you’re here.” He could taste the salt of his tears when he kissed him but only felt the light, like kissing sunshine, embracing it. Harold’s lips were soft, welcoming. John lifted him up. 

 

***

 

The world had shifted. The impossible was real. Arthur had conjured John through some mysterious intelligence portal and Harold needed to hold him, cherish him before he could be whisked away again. He took John by the hand and led him to his bedroom, leaving Arthur, trusting that he understood.

It was years since he’d laid eyes on his lover’s naked body. In Paris, John had never undressed, never shown himself and Harold tugged at his clothes between kisses. He was very hungry for the sight.

The young god had become a scarred warrior, so heartbreakingly beautiful. Perfect, despite the scars, so many scars. Harold tried not to stare at them, tried not to weep over them, but he felt the weight of all the time and events between their precious meetings.

Harold’s own shirt was hanging open, he was still in his boxers, too eager to see John not to help him shed his clothes.

“I’m a little banged up,” John said, stroking his hand over his own torso, past what looked like they might be gunshot wounds. Harold watched him stroke down his hard cock and might not have looked further, adoring the sight.

But the worst of the damage was yet to be revealed.

“You need to see,” John said, sitting up. “I’ve lost toes. It’s not painful, but it’s not pretty.” Harold looked, now that his attention had been drawn. He could see the wrongness of the shapes within the loose beige socks.

John didn’t say how it had happened, and Harold didn’t ask. He was afraid of the story behind his lover’s wounds. Now that John had warned him, he was watching him and lay back, allowing Harold to be the one to remove the covering from his feet. Slowly, Harold slid off one sock and then the other, exposing the reddened scar tissue. 

“I doubt very much that it’s not painful,” he said, his throat threatening to close in anguish. He traced a fingertip lightly over and around the gnarled skin. Harold felt an urge to kiss the injured places but looked up to see John’s face.

“That feels … nice.” He was smiling at him, his eyes shiny. Totally irresistible.

 

***

 

So fine, John thought, as elegant in his actions as in his looks. He was in a daze underneath Harold, being kissed. Slow, sweet kisses, heavenly, hypnotic. It couldn’t be real. John closed his eyes, sliding his palms down over the downy cheeks of Harold’s ass. He trailed his fingertips along tops of his thighs.

He cleared his throat and said, “You haven’t asked me.” Speaking took some effort, but the always-asked question was hanging in the air.

“Maybe I don’t want to know,” Harold said.

“Ask.”

John felt Harold’s deep breath expand his chest, the exhale carried sadness without words.

“How long?” he said, at last.

“As long as you want me.”

 

***

 

Arthur explored quietly. He admired the unique home that his friend had created. He ended up in the library’s kitchen where he shed some tears in privacy. He wept with relief, with happiness, and in a kind of wonder at the workings of the world. He dried his eyes as he waited for the kettle to boil.

Surely, this was the strangest, but also the best housewarming in the history of the world, he thought.

John, alive. Maybe he would have learned this if he’d looked into the files again but somehow, he doubted it. John’s behavior, his presence, said he was in hiding. AWOL, or whatever it was called when a soldier turned his back on covert service, on his identity. This could mean trouble, problems on the horizon but, as he’d told Nathan years ago, the prospect of future suffering didn’t make current happiness any less wonderful. He’d forgotten just how full of light Harold could be. It had been so long.

If it were a movie, he thought, wiping his eyes again, it could not be more perfect. The kettle whistled. As the tea steeped the room filled with the scent of mint and chamomile.

He was looking forward to watching a good movie. Maybe afterwards he’d do more exploring in the neighborhood. Find a good Chinese restaurant. Bring home food for his friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to put this story to bed here. I'd originally planned to this story on a long road into the future. If I ever have the energy for it, perhaps I'll do as a second part.
> 
> Apologies for the retroactive style of ending!


	17. Confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I often say I might re-visit a story and sometimes I actually do! I guess I wasn't quite done.

Harold lay on his stomach beside him. John was still dazed by fucking, still basking in the warm reality of his lover. He ran his hand over Harold’s back, skin so fine and smooth, to the plump cheeks of his ass. He sighed as the weight of certain realities rose in his mind.

He wanted this. Life with Harold. He wanted it badly. He had to make it safe and he had to make Harold understand how he’d come to be here, what the dangers were; all of it without frightening him.

He thought of him as he’d been years before, asking if he couldn’t find something less dangerous to do than becoming a Ranger; his own foolish confidence that he was following the right path. Now he was asking him to share the consequences of the choices he’d made.

“I’m going to stay,” he told him, “as long as you want me, as long as it’s safe, but you need to know that I no longer, officially … exist. Something happened last year, a mission that … blew up. I still don’t know if it was authorized by my agency or by my target’s contacts, but I chose to run. They believe I’m dead.”

A mission gone wrong, as few details as he could manage; he watched Harold carefully to gauge the impact. The blue eyes, the expressions surprisingly calm despite the emotions shifting through them. So smart, his boy was so smart; John could see him making connections. Not a boy, he corrected himself, though he looked boyish, angelic without his glasses.

“Did Arthur know?” Harold asked.

“He did, when it became official. I’m grateful he didn’t tell you.”

Harold had turned on his side to face him as he listened and appeared to be waging an internal debate.

“I don’t want you to worry, Harold. I know how to keep a low profile. I’ll do whatever is necessary to keep you safe.” John reached out to push the forelock of blond hair back, to run his fingers through it. He was going to sink toward him; he wanted to kiss him. But Harold made the slightest motion of resistance, the barest shake of his head and his expression was now both sad and determined, as if he’d come to some judgement. For a long airless moment John hung suspended, wondering if this meant he had to leave, after all.

“I can help you,” Harold said. “You’re not the only one hiding. Not the only one with … secrets, John.” These weren’t the words he expected and he had trouble making sense of them.

“My real name,” his lover said softly, “is Harold Davidson.”

He said it with a weight of significance. There was nothing about the name that meant anything to John, but the seriousness of his tone put him on alert.

“When I was seventeen,” Harold said, “I did something very reckless, incredibly reckless. I hijacked the government’s control of the internet … because I could, because my need to explore was … limitless. I blew it wide open and the consequences were staggering. I had to run, John. I left everything behind. My father, my girlfriend, my entire life. I’ve been hiding ever since.”

John felt stunned. He thought again of the boy he’d laid eyes on in that bar, knowing now what burden that youngster had been carrying. Mysterious, by necessity.

“Who knows?”

“Arthur figured it out. It took him years but it was a mystery he felt compelled to solve … why I would not allow my name to be used on our published work. He convinced me to tell Nathan. They’re the only ones. I would have told you then but …”

“I wasn’t here,” John said. Feeling the sadness, the weight of the years they’d been separated, each of them living a hidden life. He reached out again to run his fingers through Harold’s hair. “The blond hair,” he said. “I’m guessing that was Nathan’s reaction to learning your secret. The name change to Finch.”

“That feels so good.” Harold’s voice was like a sigh and John could feel the relief coming from him. He felt it too.

“Arthur working in intelligence. You should have stayed miles away from him.”

“We’ve been careful.” Harold’s eyes were closing as John’s fingertips moved down the back of his head, massaging the back of his neck.

“That’s why you left MIT, isn’t it.” Harold didn’t answer but his eyes opened slowly and his gaze bathed John in love. John sank toward him as he longed to and there was no resistance, there were no more words separating them.

The effects of truth telling; release of tension, of surrender. He’d experienced it as an interrogator with an adversary. For him, with Harold, it deepened and sweetened every kiss and sensation of touch.

***

Harold left John asleep and followed the enticing smell of food into the kitchen. He paused in the workroom to marvel at the shades of darkness out the windows, late afternoon blending to night, autumn inching toward winter. Charcoal gray and white clouds, amethyst undertones where the sun still cast highlights after it set. He tied his robe as he walked, happy for the soft feel of his slippers. The thought of John sleeping peacefully in his bed made him feel … rich.

Arthur looked up from unpacking a bag of bright red Chinese food boxes.

“You’re up! I was going to leave a care package by the door.” Harold went straight to him, motioning for him to put the boxes down, holding out his arms to Arthur. The man hugged him hard. Arthur might bemoan the weight he’d put on but Harold found it made hugging him even more enjoyable, he was a comforting armful.

“Thank you,” he told him. “Thank you … for everything. For protecting me, for bringing him to me. For being my friend.”

Arthur kissed his cheek, his forehead. His voice was whispery with emotion. “I am so happy for you.”

From the doorway came John’s voice.

“Is anyone happy for me?”

Harold heard his phone ring in the next room. As he passed John, he squeezed his arm. “Everyone is happy for you.”

Nathan’s name in the window of his phone made Harold second guess what he’d just said to John. Somewhat reluctantly, he answered. It was too soon to speak of John, much needed to be discussed and decided. Harold would say nothing but he felt wary, knowing Nathan’s uncanny ability to sense John’s presence.

“Hi Nathan, I was just in the other room. Arthur is here.”

“Finally. Guess that means you’re not free for dinner. Andre and I are trying a new place not far from you and thought you might be pried out of the castle to eat with some fellow humans.”

“Thanks for thinking of me. We’re about to indulge in Arthur’s favorite Chinese food. Next time.”

“Alright, my love. You’re off the hook.” But not for long, Harold thought. As he headed back into the kitchen he was already beginning to turn the wheels of his mind toward the role, the identity to shape for John and how to secure Nathan’s acquiescence. Both John and Arthur were looking toward him; they must have heard him say Nathan’s name.


	18. A Gathering

“John Riley. Are you kidding? What is it with keeping the first names?”

Nathan was not happy. He’d been very happy when Harold asked him to stop by for a drink. Andre was occupied at work (Harold must know that.) Nathan was devoted to his relationship. He had no intention of trying to make something happen between him and his friend, but there had been something, something vibrant and warm in Harold’s invitation. He’d sounded good, better than he had in a long time, and Nathan responded to the sense of Harold having a strong desire to see him.

The weather had turned in the night. Clouds and a stiff wind made the coming of winter more real. The lock release clicked as he reached the front entrance. He offered a wry smile up at the camera, shaking his head as he always did at what he considered the excess tech, at the building itself. He could admit that the place had some charm, now that it had been renovated, but it still struck him as too eccentric, too expensive. He wished Harold wouldn’t hide himself away in a fortress.

Inside it was warmer than he expected, a gas fire burning in the downstairs hearth. Nathan looked up to see his friend descending the stairs; lightly, quickly, dressed in a suit of the new print fabric he’d designed. Seeing it tailored into a suit (with Harold in it) the print no longer looked funereal to Nathan, it looked like the shadows of some enchanted woods.

Harold looked … beautiful, in a way that instantly spoke a name in Nathan’s mind. It was in his face, his features softened, sensuous. In his coloring, in the way his body moved.

“He’s here, isn’t he.” Nathan was sure of it, seeing Harold up close.

His friend stopped short and there was the look of apologetic distress that Nathan found both gratifying (he cares how I feel) and painful (I’m hurting him.)

“Yes … Nathan. He’s here. Please don’t, don’t punish me.” The soft entreaty touched him but also frustrated him. He didn’t see himself as punishing Harold, he believed he was looking out for him.

“Nathan,” Arthur called out from the top of the stairs, “get your handsome Nordic ass up here and have a drink.” So much for a private evening with Harold.

“Your fellow wizard is still here, I see.” Nathan sighed, feeling like the troops were arrayed against him. He reached out to squeeze Harold’s shoulder, drawing him close. He pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll do my best, Harold. The suit looks really good, by the way. As usual, you were right about how it would look constructed.”

“Thank you, Nathan.” There was some consolation in having Harold hug him tight, in knowing his feelings mattered to him. When he looked up again he saw John standing next to Arthur. He looked like he’d aged more than the five or six years since Nathan had last seen him. The jock looks of his youth had darkened and weathered. A man, not a boy. There was a dangerous air about him. Nathan held on to Harold to kiss him again, thinking, I’m not afraid of you, you bastard.

 

***

John looked around at the trio of men. The ones he’d looked to see come out of the brownstone in the Village. These two, Arthur and Nathan, they were Harold’s family. They were what he’d had for family since he was a teenager, forced to reinvent himself to survive. John needed them to accept him because his family … was Harold.

Of the one he’d been born into, there were only remnants. John’s father was dead. His mother remarried, claimed by a new family. Long before John’s official death she had let go of him.

“Keeping the first name,” he said to Nathan, “avoids easy slip ups.”

“Is that spy craft 101?”

John knew Nathan did not like him, never had. Plain as day. He didn’t rise to the bait, couldn’t afford to let his own resentments show. Couldn’t afford to think about this tall blond fucker in Harold’s bed. He shrugged an affirmative.

“More or less.”

John Riley, the identity compiled by Arthur and Harold, would be a security specialist, slash bodyguard. His history with Harold would be grounded in fact. They had met when they were young, dated, separated, met up in Paris and recently had taken up again in the states. Nathan grudgingly admitted it would work.

“I can be honest with Andre. Tell him I never trusted you and I’m still not sure that Harold isn’t making a mistake.”

“Fair enough,” John said. There was a cold part of him that considered putting Nathan out of the picture, permanently. Not possible. It would destroy Harold.

 

***

 

John’s smile when he said, “Fair enough,” to Nathan, made Harold uneasy. It was not a friendly smile.

His heart was in his throat more than once during the meeting with Nathan. The petty challenges, the jealousy, must be put to rest. Harold was hesitant to openly demand it; there was too much history, too much resentment. He watched John and Nathan take the measure of one another. John was … tolerating him.

“It’s important, Nathan.” Arthur spoke up, breaking the tension. “A man’s life and Harold’s freedom are at stake here.” His voice was gentle but firm, and Nathan closed his eyes. When they opened again he drew in a deep breath, set down his drink and looked to Harold.

“You can trust me. I hope you know that.” Harold did, at heart.

It was unusual and unsettling to be in the company of all three men at once. His time with John in the past had been so limited that they’d hoarded it to spend alone. Likewise his time with Arthur, generally spent alone together, working. It was surprising how well John and Arthur meshed. They had nothing in common but Arthur had liked him from the start.

The focal point of tension was Nathan. Toward John, toward Arthur. It was ironic that someone who was as generally affable and friendly as Nathan was, someone so socially adept, had so much trouble getting along with the others. It did seem, by the end of the gathering that Nathan was fully on board with protecting John’s cover.

Arthur left before Nathan did, he had a plane to catch. Nathan left soon after and Harold walked him out, for a moment in private. At the door he let his friend draw him into his arms.

“You know how much I love you, Harold. All I really want is your happiness, your safety.”

“I know,” he said.

“I’ll tell Andre the truth — you invited me over to break the news gently that you’re seeing a guy I don’t like. With my luck, Andre will adore him.” They were able to share a smile over this.

 

***

John stretched a little, drained the last of his drink as he waited for Harold.

Hiding in plain sight wasn’t the worst way to go. The agency wasn’t looking for him. That was the key. If they were, they’d have found him here days ago. The impulse to grab Harold and run, to burrow into some remote cabin in the woods was dangerous. It was the kind of thing that had led him to more than one target.

He would watch. He’d prepare.

Harold looked relieved when he came back upstairs, most of the tension gone from his face, his body. He stopped a few feet away, looking at him, his expression warming. This affected John more than the liquor did, relaxing, exciting him.

“Mr Riley,” Harold said, his voice velvety with affection.

“Mr … Finch,” John responded. He ran his hand down his chest, his stomach, and Harold’s eyes followed. He touched himself and Harold’s lips shaped a small smile. His gaze swept back up to John’s face. John felt the depth of his emotion, his perception, his lust. 

There was nothing else like this; there was no one to whom John had ever laid himself so bare. Kara had tried to force him open. In her own way, she’d been smart and to a certain extent, able to read him. She’d tried to dissect him, expose him, to penetrate his defenses. But she’d wielded intimacy like a weapon and John had found the strength to defy her.

Harold perceived him, desired him, and John’s barriers … fell. He trusted him completely. The protected places inside him longed to open under Harold’s loving gaze, longed to be touched.

Anything, he thought. Anything it took to keep this, to keep Harold.

 

***

 

The evening had wrung him out but the sight of John revived him. Two days of having, holding, of restless possessing, barely scratched the surface of Harold’s need. He’d meant to apologize for Nathan when he got back upstairs … but let go of it. John’s face, his body, asked for no apologies.

“Mr Riley,” he said, adoring him with his eyes. They would make this work.


	19. Bright Beacon

Andre was fully aware of the history between Nathan and Harold; there was no one at IFT who didn’t know their story, who hadn’t experienced the shifting sands of the partners’ relationship; Harold’s disappearances, Nathan’s anxiety, his affairs. Andre’s perspective had become deeper than most, as Harold’s assistant, as Nathan’s lover.

He listened to Nathan’s misgivings about John Riley, saw how torn up with worry he was, and prepared himself for the worst. He’d known guys in abusive, dependent relationships; friends who’d convinced themselves their “bad boy” lover was worth the mistreatment he dished out. The thought of Harold in a relationship like that was appalling. Nathan hadn’t come out and said that the man ever hurt Harold physically, but he implied he’d abused him emotionally and that he was dangerous.

Andre was anxious when Harold was late coming in the morning after this talk, watching for his arrival. And then he was there. He took in the sight of him and felt his whole body relax somewhat in response.

Harold was quietly beaming, his smile was slight but about as enigmatic as the Mona Lisa’s.

He had always considered Harold attractive in an ethereal, elegant way. Seeing him now, his eyes bright, his skin rosy, his features and body relaxed, it was as if he’d stepped out of shadow, into the sun. He understood at a gut level, watching him, that it must be difficult for Nathan to see another man have this effect on him. Not to be the one. It was also true, he thought, that Nathan would despise someone who could do this for Harold and then desert him.

They worked through the morning. Harold made no reference to John until his phone rang near lunchtime and he looked up expectantly.

“Send him in,” he said.

Andre was unfazed by the fact that John was handsome, abusers often were, good-looking and narcissistic. He was looking for danger signs and he uneasily noted that there were some there; the man looked powerful and his demeanor was far more serious than most people one saw walk through the doors from the showroom. He moved like he could use his body to do harm. He was taking in the room rather coldly and then his eyes found Harold. When he smiled, his face transformed and Andre took a deep breath. There might be danger in him, he thought, but not for Harold. He looked almost starstruck when he gazed at Harold and he seemed as docile as a puppy when Harold took him by the hand and led him into his office, without a word.

Nathan showed up about ten minutes after they disappeared behind the closed door, a door no one had ever seen Harold close before.

“Sweetheart,” Andre said, seeing Nathan looking hurt and a little helpless. “I think you should take me to lunch.” No good could come of him watching that door. Just the fact that he’d shown up, not usually given to putting in time at the workroom, was a sign to Andre that he was anxious.

 

***

 

Nathan trusted Andre. His steady longshoreman. When he said, “We can only wait and see. There’s nothing to worry about right now,” Nathan relaxed a little. The fact that Andre didn’t dismiss his concerns out of hand, that he also sensed John’s, for want of a better word, darkness, reassured him.

I’m not crazy to be concerned, he thought, but Andre’s right. For now there was nothing to be done but observe and see how things played out.

 

***

 

John was on his knees, face down on the couch in Harold's office. It was covered in a swath of blue velvet. His lover had pulled an armload of the fabric from a shelf and thrown it over the couch. The plush nap rubbed the underside of his cock and brushed his balls as Harold fucked him. They’d barely exchanged words once the door closed behind them, Harold making what he wanted known with gestures and nudges between kisses.

John grasped Harold’s hand near his mouth, licking his palm, biting at the soft pads of his fingers. His body shivered in anticipation of coming and the orgasm swept him when he sensed Harold about to come. 

There were gentle, wet kisses on his shoulder in the aftermath, warm licking of the back of his neck, and the comforting feel of Harold’s weight resting on him.

Someone started knocking at the door.

"Don't come in! What is it?" Harold asked, withdrawing.

Through the door a plaintive voice, "Sorry, sorry, Harold. There's a flood in the model's bathroom. Andre isn't here. What should we do?"

John straightened up with a groan, finding his jeans on the floor. "I'll go take care of it." Harold handed him his shirt with an apologetic look. John stepped into his shoes. He stole a quick kiss as he buttoned his shirt and took off, careful to open the door only enough to pass through it.

The mini crisis proved to be the key to his future role at IFT. Officially he worked security but he would become the unofficial handyman, general contractor and warehouse man. It would give him plenty to do while he did his real job, looking after Harold.

 

***

Arthur was wary of Logan Pierce but he appreciated the generous budget and facilities he was given for his research.

“I’m afraid he’s quite insane,” he said, looking over Harold’s shoulder as his friend worked on a portion of code. “I think you’ve solved it, my friend. Beautiful.”

He’d stopped in at the library on his way home. It was a Friday evening in early December. He and Diane were settling in nicely to an apartment only a few blocks away. Arthur snuck in visits whenever he could between long hours at work and nesting with Diane. He and Harold had quickly established a secure communications network between them so Harold could act as a contract consultant. The project was nothing less than crafting an artificial intelligence. Pierce wanted to be the first to animate a personal assistant through his online social network empire.

“This could still use some polishing,” Harold said. Of course he would say that, Arthur thought. Harold was nothing if not a perfectionist.

“I think I can handle that,” he told him. “The other will take more work. I’ll leave it to you.”

“Do you honestly believe the program can learn like a child, Arthur?”

“Perhaps not like a human child but if anyone can teach it, tease a program to life, my bet is on you.” Arthur bent forward to kiss the top of his friend’s blond head.

“I’d hold on to my wager if I were you. I promise to take a look at it.”

“God, what is John cooking that smells so good — lasagna?”

“You could stay for dinner.”

“No no, Diane has plans for us tonight. Just save me a bite of whatever that is.”

This was almost as good as living upstairs from Harold. Better in some ways. John was more welcoming than Nathan had ever been and Arthur could take the feelings of happiness stirred from seeing them together, home to Diane, with whom he could celebrate his own good fortune.

Artificial intelligence was a goal that fired the imagination. It was achievable, in certain ways, to certain degrees. Arthur had produced a semblance of it in a number of projects. He believed that if anyone was capable of creating a true intelligence, it was his friend Harold. He wasn’t just a perfectionist, he was a poet of computer languages, a visionary. Arthur knew himself to be very talented but felt that Harold was capable of more. Pierce’s ambitions were grand in some ways but fairly mundane. Arthur thought that together, he and Harold could achieve something greater. What that greater thing was, he didn’t know, but he sensed it like a bright beacon in their future.


	20. The Promise

“You know,” Andre said, closing his eyes as Nathan massaged his shoulders, “you could do this for a living if real estate and fashion don’t pan out.” The man had incredible hands, strong, but more importantly, sensitive; finding just the right places to apply pressure. He could walk up behind him, as he had moments ago at the kitchen counter, and reduce him to marshmallow in about thirty seconds. It was especially nice after a long day at work.

“I thought Riley was taking over the manual labor over there. What have you been doing that you’re so knotted up?”

“Not physical labor. Just … design work, fittings.”

Andre didn’t go into details. It wasn’t a good idea to prolong discussion if the subject was John. What he’d been doing the past few days was outfitting Harold’s boyfriend. Harold had come to him and asked him to put John in clothes, find him a look that would work. “I can’t do it myself. I get too … distracted.” He’d blushed just a little when he said it. He’d almost gotten to the point, Andre thought, that he could say things like this without coloring up, but to hear Harold make any sexual reference, no matter how oblique, was still a surprising thing.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he’d told him. “You’re right. The jeans and jacket every day have to go.”

John was easy to dress in some ways. He looked good in everything. Andre put him in a better cut of jeans, much better leather jacket. “For days off,” he told him, expecting some protest. There was none.

The man wasn’t restless or impatient about being measured or told to try things on. The difficulty was the pressure Andre felt, being the one to decide what Harold’s guy should look like. Ultimately, he’d rejected both the too refined and too casual.

“I think we should keep you classic, John.” Suits. A modern cut but with a little extra room to move, good fabric, nothing fussy. “Let’s keep to white, maybe some shades of gray for your shirts. Does that sound all right?”

“Whatever you think, is fine.” He didn’t seem to have any opinion about what he wore. Andre had heard Nathan mention the military. That made sense; John might have gotten used to wearing whatever he was told to wear. But not all soldiers emerged from the service indifferent to their clothes. He’d known vets who were super clothes conscious, even flamboyant, who wanted nothing to do with anything resembling a uniform once they got out. “If Harold likes it,” John added, and Andre smiled. The guy did care about how he looked … to Harold.

“I think he will,” he assured him. “Let’s ditch the tie.” That was better. “Top two buttons, leave them open. That’s good.” The open throat did something hard to define, but it seemed right for John. The tie was attractive on him, but where a tie enhanced most people, it detracted from John. Harold would love this look, Andre thought. It had everything the man admired, quality fabric, hand-finishing, perfect fit. Most important, especially without the tie, the man was the focal point, not the clothes.

 

***

 

Harold’s surveillance equipment and software had evolved exponentially. The need to protect John had spurred him to develop a system that was orders of magnitude greater than anything he’d devised to protect himself. Arthur’s work for Logan Pierce was put on the back burner for the time being. It didn’t merit the same kind of attention.

He and John were looking at his main monitor in the library workroom, at someone his system had identified as anomalous.

“She doesn’t look particularly … dangerous,” Harold said. A dark-haired young woman. It was quite possible he needed to recalibrate, fine tune the parameters. But John was studying the image.

“She’s still down there.”

“You think it’s significant?” he asked. John was standing close, leaning forward to gaze at the screen.

Harold had been captivated by the sight of him that afternoon, in the first of the suits Andre had designed for him. Perfect, Harold thought, marveling at Andre’s talent and taste. He’d been eager to get John home where he could look his fill and follow his gaze with his hands. After the time he’d given in to impulse, practically dragging John into his office to get his hands on him, Harold had vowed that he’d have more discipline at work. He didn’t approve of sex at the office.

“I’m gonna find out,” John said, and he was off.

Harold was left staring after him, open-mouthed with surprise at his quick exit. Then he’d shifted to his tracking software to follow John’s movements and keep tabs on the woman as far as his cameras reached. He hadn’t been content with views immediately surrounding IFT and the library. With John’s help he’d scattered cameras throughout the two neighborhoods. What he really needed, he thought, was access to the domain awareness system.

“Which way ahead,” John’s voice on speaker.

“She turned right on Madison, after that, I don’t know, John.”

“Thanks. That’s good enough.”

 

***

 

John kept the connection open to Harold, liking the background sound of the library, Harold’s typing, his breathing, his movements. The earpiece was excellent; he’d forgotten how Arthur and Harold together could engineer superior hardware.

The woman was challenging to shadow. She’d thrown off a possible tail in a rote kind of way, he thought, like she was used to taking precautions; switching up her directions and using dodges. This was enough to tell him Harold’s software alert was on target. She wasn’t taking enough care to indicate she knew she’d been tagged.

He read off the address of the building she disappeared into to Harold. “What can you find?” It was a narrow five-story commercial building that had seen better days. The main floor was a deli.

“Small publisher’s office, a yoga studio … there’s an office for a non profit. The second floor is a legal support service.”

Bingo, he thought, pretty sure that would be the one.

“I’m gonna be out here for a while, Harold. You go ahead with dinner if you’re hungry.”

“What are you going to do, John?”

“I’m going to watch. Don’t worry, Harold.” He heard him sigh and it made him grin. He kissed him in his mind. “I’ll be home as soon as I can be.” He reluctantly closed the connection to save his battery.

 

***

Harold spent the evening working on his surveillance software, waiting for word from John. He did finally wander into the kitchen to make tea and do some nibbling. He couldn’t work up any interest in dinner. There was an apple pie in the refrigerator that John had baked earlier in the week.

He thinks it’s amazing that I can design clothes and software, Harold thought, savoring the flavor of the apples and spices. It was more amazing to him that John could soldier, fix any broken thing and produce such incredible food in their kitchen. He took a deep breath and wondered how much weight he’d put on in the past couple of months. He covered up the pie, deciding it would be better to have it later with John, maybe warmed up with a splash of cream or whipped cream. He imagined spooning it into John’s mouth.

Eventually, he got ready for bed. He hated the thought of John out in the cold somewhere, chasing down what was probably a false alarm. He initiated contact.

“Yes,” John answered at once.

“Anything?”

“You sound sleepy.” Harold could hear the amusement in John’s voice.

“I’m getting into bed. Maybe you could call it off for the night.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

 

***

Sameen Shaw’s Legal Support Service appeared to be what it claimed to be: document retrieval, process serving, research. Private investigation was a sideline. John found Nathan Ingram in the client files. It was annoying as hell that Nathan had hired someone to check up on him. It was also dangerous to have someone snooping. Shaw appeared to be competent. It hadn’t been easy to circumvent her security. God only knew what she could turn up if she set her mind to it. This wasn’t as serious as finding the agency on his trail, but it wasn’t good.

Confront Nathan?

Harold, as if he’d sensed something, contacted John as he was securing his exit. The affectionate, worried voice was an instant reminder that he had to deal with Nathan carefully. If he threatened him it would only make him more hostile.

He would have to let Harold know what he’d discovered and let him deal with it. The friendship between those two, he didn’t like it. But he had to tread carefully. Nathan couldn’t be trusted and he couldn’t be dismissed or dealt with directly. He didn’t want to put this on Harold, who just now sounded adorably sleepy.

“I’ll be there soon.”

Harold was the only one who could handle this, for now, but if Nathan persisted in endangering Harold, John would find his own way to stop him.

 

***

 

Knowing John would be there soon, Harold turned the bedside light back on but found that the relief of knowing he was on his way home, made him sleepier. He dropped off irresistibly and didn’t wake up until the light went out and he felt the covers move, the mattress give under John’s weight. He slid toward him.

“You’re back.”

John felt cool and he smelled like mint. Harold shivered a little, sharing his body heat, sliding an arm and his leg over him to warm him up.

“Go back to sleep,” John said, but Harold woke a little more, wanting more. He felt the side of John’s face, found his mouth to kiss.

“Was it anything, John? You never said.” He felt the lift of John’s chest as he sighed.

“We can talk in the morning.” This fully woke Harold. It meant he had found something.

“I’m awake, John. Tell me now.” His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark and he could make out his lover’s face in the dim light.

“Morning would be better. There’s nothing we need to do tonight … except maybe more of this,” he said, stroking a hand down Harold’s back.

It was tempting … the caress felt good and the kiss was something he’d like more of, but he needed to know what John had discovered. If his system had pinpointed a real threat, he needed to know now.

“Now, John.”

“The woman’s a PI. Nathan hired her. I went through the files in her office. He hired her a few days ago.”

Harold groaned. He didn’t want to believe it but he did. He’d had lunch with Nathan a few days before and his friend had seemed more relaxed, more casual on the subject of John than before. There were none of the usual jibes, no snide remarks.

“I’ll … take care of it, John. I’m so sorry.”

“Not your fault, Harold.”

John might not think so, but Harold thought it was. He’d mishandled his relationship with Nathan in so many ways. It was his fault that Nathan played this confused role in his life. He had never been clear enough, drawn the boundaries the way they should have been drawn. Whatever it took now, he had to stop the man from blundering into territory he wasn’t equipped to understand or handle. He knew, without allowing himself to dwell there, that John was a man capable of violence. Not a violent man, not by nature. But capable of doing what he believed was necessary to nullify a threat.

He wanted to ask John to promise he’d never hurt Nathan, but the words stuck in his throat. To ask him to promise that would be like telling him he didn’t trust him. And he did. He did trust him. The man had endured so much, was risking so much to be with him. Harold thought now that he had to be as trustworthy in turn. He was the one who needed to promise. It was his responsibility to take care of John and make sure there was no necessity for violence.

“I won’t let him hurt you,” Harold said, gazing into his eyes through the low light, and then he kissed him to imprint the passion of his words.

 

***

John hated to see Harold upset by Nathan, to see the energy drain out of him; the way he blamed himself. He wished it could have been put off until morning, that he could just have the pleasure of being back in their bed, of feeling Harold in his pretty pajamas sliding into his arms. But his lover’s radar was alert and he couldn’t be put off.

He was taking it badly. His expression distant, physically withdrawing. John was beginning to think that even the prospect of sleep was receding. Then suddenly Harold was present again, as if he’d worked something out in that brilliant pretty head of his. His eyes intent and full of emotion, his body pressing closer, and his soft voice filled with conviction.

“I won’t let him hurt you.”

John might have smiled, but Harold was serious. The kiss was passionate. John let it carry him where Harold wanted to take him, to a place where he was the bulwark of protection to everything tender in John and John felt … grateful.


	21. Scotch

Harold’s thoughts, his planned words, had been circling in his head. He felt slightly nauseous, heavy-hearted with the intensity of the message he’d come to deliver. As he rode the elevator up to his friend’s loft, he hoped his voice would be steady when it came time to speak.

He’d only been there once before, the housewarming, when Nathan and Andre moved in. When he stepped inside he saw Nathan across the room at a long, glass-topped table. A newspaper spread out, his laptop open. He looked like he always did on a lazy morning.

“Good morning.” Nathan’s smile was sunny but fading as Harold approached him. “To what do I owe the honor?”

Harold stood by the table, not taking off his coat.

“Call off the private investigator, Nathan.”

The man’s gaze narrowed. There was no denial. Seconds passed and the air between them grew heavy.

“Why would I do that, Harold? There’s a lot I still don’t know about him.”

“I’m not pleading, I’m not begging. I’m telling you, Nathan.”

“If you’re afraid the investigator will uncover things about you, Harold, don’t be. That’s not what she’s hired to do.”

“We’re not discussing my fears. My software identified her easily. If you hired someone else it would be the same. If you keep this up … I’ll be gone.”

“What do we really know about him,” Nathan said, as if Harold hadn’t thought things through. “What kind of danger he represents.”

“I know exactly … everything about John. All you need to know is that I will do whatever it takes to protect him. I will walk away. You can have the rest of your life to wonder where I am. Do not force my hand, Nathan.” The words came out breathy, it hurt to speak them. Harold would not, could not back down. He meant what he was saying and needed to be believed.

He studied Nathan’s face, the familiar face of a much-loved friend and yet in this moment, the face of threat, of danger. Not from malice, not from evil, but from misguided concern and … a kind of jealousy that seemed to have no cure. Nathan could destroy them.

“Harold, I’m doing this for you, not to hurt you. Take off your coat. Sit down and talk to me …”

“There’s nothing to say. Take care of it. Now, Nathan.”

No discussion. No concessions. He turned and walked away on unsteady legs. His hand was shaking as he shut the grate of the elevator and pushed the button to take him back downstairs, praying Nathan would not come after him.

 

***

 

Nathan couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. He took out his phone and stared at it, unsure whether to call Harold and try to talk him back, call the investigator, or call Andre to vent his frustration and confusion. But Andre didn’t know he’d hired a PI. He’d kept it to himself when the idea came to him; a way to find out what they were dealing with in harboring and shielding the soldier.

He hadn’t discussed any of the details of John’s story with Andre and didn’t want to now. He had never, and would not, reveal the truth about Harold’s background to him either.

Harold was upset. There was no point in trying to get through to him in such a state. Nathan didn’t think he’d ever seen him that angry.

Fuck. He had to call it off.

 

***

It was good money but Sameen didn’t mind giving this one up. Ingram had laid out a weird scenario. He wanted her to watch his ex’s new boyfriend, thought the guy was dangerous. She was having trouble unearthing anything about him after he’d graduated Ranger school. To her that meant he’d gone undercover, a shadow branch of the service, black ops. Not an area she relished snooping around in. She’d had enough brushes with that world to know what kind of trouble poking the wrong anthill could stir up. Trouble she didn’t want.

 

***

 

John was tightening the last screw on a display rack when he got the call from Harold to come home.

“The boss?” Andre asked. John nodded.

“Gotta go.”

“Go on. Thanks for getting this beast put together.”

“No problem. Keep the list for me.”

Andre was the one who always knew what needed to be done. He’d had a list ready when John came in that morning. John was beginning to like him. The guy was straightforward, practical … and he’d made him look good to Harold.

He’d expected to see Harold show up after whatever his errand was that morning. A private errand, he’d judged by the way Harold made clear he was coming in afterwards. Now John was worried about what the errand might have been, with the quiet request for him to come home.

When he got to the library he took the marble stairs two at a time. Harold was at his computer.

“What’s happened?”

“Hang on … I’m just about in.” John read his intensity. Upright posture, solemn expression, his fingers moving swiftly on his keyboard. John looked over Harold’s shoulder and saw a succession of windows. The last to open was a directory. These were the investigator’s client files but Harold, he realized, was in her system, not looking at the files John had copied.

At the bottom of the opened file, “closed at client request.” It was dated and time stamped.The tension went out of Harold. He sat back in his chair, hands going to his head, pushing his hair back as he drew in a deep breath.

“Did you confront Nathan? Is that where you went this morning?”

John wasn’t sure how he felt about this. It was a good thing to see the investigation shut down but he was wary of open conflict with Nathan. Harold swiveled his chair to face him. He looked weary, drained.

“We should be prepared, John. This time, it worked, but I think we need to be ready to move at a moment’s notice. Established identities, available funds. If Nathan hadn’t done what I asked him to do, we might have needed to act and act quickly.”

His friend was shaken. That much was clear. John didn’t think that Shaw could have found much, even if she’d kept digging, but it was a risk. Harold was right, of course.

John was adept at disappearing but it wasn’t enough now. He wasn’t alone. He couldn’t fall back on his own ability to slip through the cracks. He couldn’t ask Harold to do something like hide out on a freighter for months at sea; not an option.

“We’ll take care of it.”

“I’ve already begun,” he said.

 

***

 

Harold already had multiple IDs, developed through the years as covers for his work with Arthur, developed as contingencies because it was second nature to prepare. But he needed to revamp and include John in the bolt holes he’d created for himself. It wasn’t enough to safeguard himself.

He reached out to take John’s hand, holding it to his face to rub against his cheek, to his lips to kiss. It smelled of soap and … faintly of machine oil, which made him smile.

“What did Andre have you working on?”

“Taking apart and rebuilding the spiral rack in the showroom. Guess I need to wash my hands again.”

Harold saw a life take shape in his mind, as if glimpsing a world that already existed. In a golden drop of light he saw the two of them living in a house like the one he grew up in; he was mending clothes in a spare room and John was working with hand tools in their garage. A wave of nostalgia for his youth, his family. That was a world that could not be recreated but … there were possibilities.

He stood to move into John’s arms, thinking of how quickly and deeply his parents had fallen in love. Impossible to know how long you could hold on to someone. Harold hugged John tight.

 

***

 

“You had a fight with Harold?” Andre had come home to find few lights on in the loft and Nathan nursing a scotch on the rocks. It looked like he hadn’t dressed properly or gone out all day. This was a state he hadn’t seen him in, in a while.

“I did something … stupid. Really stupid.” Andre didn’t disagree when Nathan confessed he’d hired a private eye to look into John’s history.

“Nathan, John’s not a bad guy. You need to trust Harold. I’m sure you’ve noticed … he’s pretty smart. If you try to interfere you’re only going to make yourself miserable and lose a good friend.”

“I didn’t think he’d find out.”

“That doesn’t make it any smarter on your part. I think the only person in any danger from John, is maybe you. Honestly, you need to leave it alone.”

Nathan’s sheepish, apologetic look gave Andre hope that the veil was lifting. The man hadn’t touched his drink since they’d begun talking. He’d settled back on the couch cushions, bare feet up, long legs stretched out.

“Why do you put up with me?” he asked. Sometimes Andre asked himself the same question, usually at times like this when Nathan's relationship with Harold seemed to bring out the worst in him; something childish and unreasonable.

“Well,” Andre sighed, “you’re really good-looking.” As he’d hoped, this made Nathan grin. With the smile, the man opened his arms to him and Andre accepted the invitation. It took them many steps in the right direction toward a better evening; sweet time on the couch, followed by a good dinner, unaccompanied by scotch.


	22. Park Slope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A hint of Shoot!

Mid-December wasn’t a busy time at IFT. John was at loose ends.

“I’ve got nothing left on the list, except a delivery to Radio City Music Hall. Angelo will kill me if I give you that,” Andre told him. “He’s got a thing for the Rockettes.” Angelo was the regular delivery guy whose surplus John sometimes picked up.

“Guess I’ll have to break something, so I can fix it.”

John’s gaze strayed, seeking Harold. His lover was busy. He had taken off his suit jacket at some point. He was leaning over one of the tables that was the nexus for a small team. From behind, his vest and snug trousers created a perfect view of his ass. Wherever Harold went, whichever design he was overseeing, he drew people like a magnet. One of the models had wandered over and was standing close, arm draped casually around Harold’s shoulders, leaning with him to look at whatever was laid out on the work table. 

“Breaking something is … one possibility,” Andre said, drawing John’s attention back from Harold. He looked sympathetic. “They always hang on him. It doesn’t mean anything.”

There were an awful lot of good-looking men coming and going at IFT. They jockeyed for Harold’s attention, preened and posed for him, John noticed, both in the showroom and the workroom.

“I thought there’d be more women, in fashion.”

“Not so much in menswear,” Andre said, and John conceded a smile.

“I’ll take a look around the warehouse.” He could usually find something that needed doing in around the machinery and inventory, even if it was only making the guys back there nervous because he was the boss’s boyfriend.

 

***

 

“Whatever happened with that ex-spook?” Root asked, picking up the scattered mail, leafing through it as she perched on the desk.

“That would be … none of your business.” Sameen didn’t look up from her laptop.

It pissed her off that Root snooped in her files. She was incurably nosy and her computer skills bordered on genius.

She’d hired her for those skills as a consultant a couple months back. A quick drink to celebrate the end of that case had turned into a few steamy hours at the Four Seasons. Since then she’d become a regular pain in the ass.

The woman was hot. There was no way around that. And skillful. But she was as hard to shake as a burr.

When Sameen told her, “I don’t do relationships,” all it got her was a sympathetic smile. Oblivious to rejection, more than a little nuts, and who the hell called themselves, Root, anyway?

“Off the desk.”

“Sadly, I do have errands to run. I’ll see you later, sweetie.”

The bitch of it was, she probably would see her later. Amnesia set between when she got annoyed and when she got horny. At night, after work, her needs were simple: food, a couple beers or a glass of wine, a workout. An hour with the weights at the gym or a run would do the trick for a good night’s sleep, but nothing beat the kind of workout that Root could give her. Hard to turn down.

In the beginning she would show up with a cold six pack, hot Chinese food, and the promise of a good time on the couch in the back of the office. “No strings,” she always said. But the strings were there. They might be silky and hard to see, but they were there. She’s got me trained like a dog, Sameen thought. Lured in with beer and spiced noodles, with steaks and scotch. Now there were sometimes whole nights in bed.

 

***

 

Arthur thought he’d left the government and its intel agencies behind in Virginia. Two and half months into the FriendCzar project, his former NSA contact, Alicia Corwin alerted him that the feds were looking at Logan Pierce and evaluating the project Arthur was heading. She wanted to meet with him, back in DC. He reluctantly agreed. Predictive algorithms, millions of user profiles and images, these would be of immense use to intelligence agencies.

It meant shutting down direct contact with Harold, which saddened him. He issued a warning through one of his friend’s most obscure covers, a message in code, telling him to keep a safe distance.

 

***

Harold was in the back seat of John’s latest rental, changing up his jacket and his glasses, trading his tailored trousers for jeans. John kept an eye on him in the rearview mirror. The delicate Italian shoes would go into his Whole Foods shopping bag and be replaced with boots. He looked up and met John’s eyes in the mirror.

“I believe it’s safer if you watch the road.”

“Yes, sir, Mr Larkin.” John was impressed by the range of his lover’s cover identities and was helping him with the serious work of fleshing them out.

They were heading into Brooklyn where Harold Larkin regularly picked up mail and packages at his local UPS store. They were spending a couple nights at Larkin’s Park Slope brownstone. This cover was an IT expert, a successful freelancer who traveled a lot but knew his neighbors well enough to exchange greetings if they ran into each other. On that snowy December evening he would be attending a holiday get together; the winter version of a block party.

“I know they’re curious about my new boyfriend.”

“I like this Larkin guy,” John said, pulling up at the curb outside the UPS store. “Cute glasses.” The wire frames reminded him of the ones Harold wore when he first met him.

He kept the car running, the wipers lazily keeping up with the falling snow. It looked like Harold might be stuck for a little while. John could see a crowd through the partly steamed windows. People sending and receiving Christmas gifts.

His own cover, John Mellman, was “between jobs.” Content to be taken care of by his boyfriend. “Your boy toy,” John teased, liking the idea. He watched Harold chat with the guy behind the counter and accept a handful of mail, a small package. His expression looked fairly serious as he came out and headed for the car, getting into the front seat with him.

“What’s up?” John asked.

“A package from Arthur. Not a good sign.”


	23. Daddy

“He sent you a movie?”

“Yes … and no,” Harold said. “It’s the film he wanted me to watch with him the first time you showed up to see me in the city. The first summer. But, it’s a message.” A message only Arthur could have written for him and only Harold could read, in a code they’d created as a game while they were at MIT. The message was incised in fine lines on the back of the DVD.

“And?”

It was a possible threat. It was the loss … of a friend.

Harold was sitting on a bed they’d never slept in, in a house they did not live in. The temperature was slowly coming up but the place was chilly. John had been down to the basement to check the boiler and it sounded like it was working. The old radiators were knocking as they heated up. John was looking at him, questioning, concerned. Harold felt unsteady, like a stranger in his own skin. He didn’t want to go to a party and pretend to be two people they weren’t. He wanted to crawl into bed with John. 

“The government is interested in Arthur’s Friendczar project. He’s warning me not to contact him.”

The phone rang. A landline phone beside the bed. Harold picked it up.

“Hello,” he said, cautiously.

“Harold! Welcome home! It’s Alison. I saw you pull up a little while ago. I just called to make sure you’re coming tonight. ”

“Yes, remind me … what time should we be there and what we’re supposed to bring?” He knew exactly what they were supposed to bring. It was all waiting downstairs. He asked for the sake of something to say.

“Eight-thirty and all you really need to bring is your handsome selves. I had you down on the list for brownies and wine, but … ”

“No problem, that’s what I thought. We’re all set.”

“Awesome! We’ll see you soon then.”

Harold said, “Yes, of course,” remembering his neighbor’s general enthusiasm and high energy. What would it be like, he wondered, if he allowed himself to become Harold Larkin and had Alison for a close friend. Despite the impulse only moments before, to hide away in bed with John, the whole point of this trip to Brooklyn was making these identities real. Real enough to inhabit if they needed to. When he hung up the phone he set the DVD on the bedside table.

“I’m sorry about Arthur,” John said, sitting down next to him. “I know you’ll miss him.”

“He thought he’d left the government agencies behind in Virginia.”

John offered a rueful smile.

“It’s not so easy to walk away. They’ve got him pegged as a valuable asset. Whatever he does is probably going to interest them.” Unspoken by either of them, but shared in their eyes, the knowledge of how Arthur had come to Harold, openly spending time with him in New York. No way to know how closely he’d been monitored.

“If they were on to us, Harold. I’d be dead now. I think he’s on their radar but you should trust the system you put together.”

“Maybe we need to get away, John. Maybe Larkin and Mellman could settle down somewhere in California.”

“And what happens to Harold Finch? To IFT?” His voice turned gentle when he said, “I think we stick to our plan until we have a reason not to. This isn’t it.”

Harold closed his eyes, reaching to reset his mood, his mind; to cultivate acceptance. It was an eddy of fear. It was the pain right now, he thought, the prospect of giving up Arthur, that made everything feel intolerable. When he opened his eyes again, John was still watching him. So much was riding on making it all work. His beautiful lover, who was risking everything to be with him.

“Okay?” John asked.

“Yes.” As he relaxed he saw the ease reflected in John — the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile, his gaze becoming less concerned and warmer.

“I heard you say eight-thirty. I think there’s time to roll around in these sheets and make this place feel like home. Time for you to play with your boy toy.” The blue eyes sparkled under their dark fringe of lashes. A smile slowly overtook Harold’s own face.

“I think you’re right.”

 

***

 

John was relieved to see Harold smile. His lover’s worries, his sadness, weren’t gone but he was finding his footing. It showed in his eyes. John was happy. As long as he had Harold and Harold was safe, the rest didn’t matter much.

At first they were shivering, burrowing into the cold bed but the heat of their bodies and the warming radiators soon had them shoving covers and blankets aside, which John liked. He liked to see Harold’s pale, smooth skin as he touched it, kissed it, see him get rosy with excitement.

After, as their bodies cooled down, they pulled the covers back up over them, and Harold was peaceful, spooned in his arms. It was time to go over their stories.

“Where did we meet?” John asked him, stroking his lover’s side, reaching around to get a handful of the little soft belly that Harold complained about. John loved it; its silky surface and the curve under his hand.

“We met at a bar in Denver,” Harold said. “A gay bar.”

“Called …”

“Called Charlie’s. You’re originally from Washington State. I’m from Michigan. You’ve worked mostly in restaurants but done some bartending.”

“Lucky me, to be working at Charlie’s when a cute little blond stopped in for a drink.” John could imagine pulling drafts behind a bar, watching the world’s most adorable nerd take a seat. Making sure he’d be the one to wait on him. He kissed the back of Harold’s head. “What did you order?”

“Some kind of wine you didn’t have but you convinced me to try a Colorado Bulldog.”

“And you pretended to like it.” John pressed his soft cock against his lover’s warm ass. He felt a stirring in spite of having come not long before, he loved the feel of him against his groin.

“It was like a bubbly White Russian. Somewhat disgusting, but I managed to drink about half of it before you asked me for my number.”

“And you gave it to me,” John whispered.

 

***

Harold looked at himself in the nondescript white shirt and jeans, Larkin’s “dressed up” look. His hair, freshly washed and haphazardly blown dry, kind of flopped around his face, catching at the rims of the round gold frames. He had to smile at his unlikely reflection in the mirror.

Next to him, John was more styled; a tailored shirt, snug jeans and a leather jacket, in keeping with Mellman’s persona. He turned to Harold and purred, “You look good, daddy.” He winked.

It startled but delighted Harold to be given this nickname. He laughed a little but slowly put his arms around John’s neck. “You’re a sweet boy,” he told him, and kissed him.


	24. The Block Party

Harold sipped a little at his wine, watching John across the room, performing at the makeshift bar. It delighted him to see his lover toss and catch a bottle, showing off moves for their neighbors as he mixed drinks by request. He’d had no idea when John suggested the bartending cover that he was actually well-versed in it. John caught him watching and winked.

A young woman whose face he didn’t know from the neighborhood took a seat beside him on the couch, crossing her long slim legs decorously. She was sitting awfully close. His impulse was to back away, but he didn't want to seem rude.

“Samantha,” she introduced herself. “I heard someone call you, Harold.”

“Yes. Nice to meet you, Samantha.”

“Actually, I prefer to be called, Root.”

“Root? That’s … an interesting nickname.” Odd. He felt unaccountably alarmed by her. It wasn't just how close she'd positioned herself. Turned toward him, her knees close to touching him. There was something in the intensity of her gaze that unsettled him. Her expression seemed slightly amused, as if she was enjoying the thoughts in her head. Thoughts about him. It made Harold decidedly uncomfortable.

 

***

 

Root found most people boring. She lived much of her life online, where through the medium of ones and zeros she sought out individuals and enterprises that did interest her. There wasn’t much she couldn’t do with a computer, little she couldn’t build with code.

She’d invited herself to a Brooklyn block party as a friend of the O’Connor family, newcomers to the neighborhood, who were conveniently out of town, spending the holidays in Cancun. She told her girlfriend, before leaving Manhattan, that she’d be back late, to which Sameen had replied, “Whatever.”

That general indifference to what she did and where she went was golden to Root. She could not abide clingy. Sameen was the antithesis of clingy and it made Root, somewhat ironically, determined to hold on to her.

She was attending the party in Brooklyn for one reason only, to meet someone she believed to be a very interesting person. Someone she’d been searching for, off and on, for years. 

As an inveterate snoop, because poking into hidden corners was the best way to uncover potentially useful information, Root often entertained herself while her girlfriend slept by combing through her files. Though she was ostensibly a technology consultant, Root made money in various ways that were not entirely legal, using multiple aliases. She had a taste for taking advantage of the lovely homes of people on vacations, houses caught in real estate limbo, neglected funds, and cars she didn’t own. If the person she happened to take advantage of was also a cheating spouse or some kind of crook, she gave herself bonus points.

She’d gotten involved with Sameen Shaw because the woman was drop-dead gorgeous, unbelievably straightforward and incurious (outside the context of work) and a constant challenge. There was not one boring thing about her. But she’d never thought her sweetie’s files would yield clues to a mystery she’d given up on years before.

Arthur Claypool was a familiar figure to her, as was anyone who’d achieved anything significant in the field of computer technology. For a while, years back, she’d kept tabs on his work because it occasionally revealed sparks of brilliance. Not consistently, however. She’d dismissed him as a thinker when he went to work full time for the government — a fate that anyone worth the paper their degree was printed on would avoid (in her humble opinion.) It was the place brilliant ideas went to die or be perverted, though she periodically tracked developments in intelligence tech.

She had always believed that Claypool had a collaborator, the real source of his best work, of code that had a distinct flavor. This collaborator, she believed, whose signature style first appeared in papers published while he was an MIT student, was probably there with him at school. Every lead she’d followed from the those he formally credited were dead ends. She’d tried to broaden her search to his friends and still found nothing. There was one possibility. Someone she hadn’t been able to track down, named Harold Wren. He had appeared in Claypool’s life briefly and then virtually disappeared.

The multi-colored lights of the Christmas tree behind them cast pretty reflections in the young man’s shiny blond hair. He looked cute as a blond, she thought. Root studied his very intelligent face, savoring the moment. She felt tender toward his affinity for birds, though it was definitely a weakness. Harold Wren. Harold Finch. Now, Harold Larkin. For the moment she felt content to be near him, knowing his secret. She didn’t want to frighten him away, though there were a thousand things she’d like to ask him. She thought she knew why he was hiding. An audacious hack when he was only seventeen.

“Lovely to meet you, Harold.”

She’d found him by the thinnest of threads. Two pictures she’d seen of Arthur Claypool. One showed him him sitting on the stoop of a brownstone in the Village with a young soldier. She recognized the older version of him in Sameen’s files. The ex-spook. The other photo she’d seen of Arthur was taken at MIT with a group of his friends, including a slim, somewhat nondescript boy, with medium brown hair and round glasses, named Harold Wren. 

***

John saw the leggy brunette move in too close to Harold on the couch, and wrapped up his bartending with a spiked egg nog for his hostess, Alison. “Pardon me, ladies. I think I see someone hitting on my boyfriend.”

He didn’t like the way the woman had zeroed in on him, though who could blame her. John sat down very close on the other side of Harold and draped his arm possessively around his shoulders. She drew back incrementally and smiled at him.

“Harry and I were just discovering that we do similar kinds of work,” she said.

When she moved away soon after, John tugged gently on a lock of blond hair. “Harry?”

“I’m glad you came back when you did.”

“Was she hitting on you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. She knew I was here with you. It was the way she looked at me. Like she knew me, or knew something about me.”

John didn’t like the sound of that and found a chance to ask Alison about her, what she knew about her.

“I don’t know anything about her. Is she still here? Someone said she’s a friend of the O’Connors. House-sitting or something, and she saw the invitation, decided to stop in.”

 

***

Much later that night, Root glanced out of the O’Connor’s bedroom window to see more snow had begun to fall. The ex-spook had left his perch in the shadows across the street. She’d planted a small camera on the window sill for surveillance, expecting that he’d want to check her out, want to know who she was. So she’d carried on as if it were normal for her to be in the house while he was out there, walking past the window from time to time, offering up a yawn, eventually dimming the lights; all while watching the camera display on her laptop.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she told him in her mind. “You, on the other hand, I’m not so sure about.” She was inclined to agree with Nathan Ingram, the ex-boyfriend who hired Sam. This guy was bad news for Harold. She’d keep an eye on him.

It was time to erase her presence in the O’Connor home and head back into Manhattan. She’d pick up pastrami sandwiches on her way, one of them over-loaded with mustard. Sam would probably be ready for a late night snack by the time she got there. Root was feeling good, feeling stimulated by her success. It would be a delicate matter to introduce herself into Harold’s life without alarming him but she was confident she'd find a way. A way that somehow avoided the big ape he'd unwisely chosen as a lover.


	25. Root Happens

“What the fuck, Root?” Shaw watched in disbelief as the woman dragged the unconscious man she recognized as John Riley across the threshold of her office.

“Sorry, sweetie. He surprised me in the hall and I kind of tasered him.”

“Kind of? And then what, accidentally hit him over the head?” The guy was out cold and there was blood on his forehead.

Shaw was torn between shock that that this guy was in her building, what it meant, and anger at Root for tasering and cold-cocking the bastard. Alarm bells were going off in her head.

“I’m … thorough,” Root said. “Have you got anything we can tie hm up with? He’s not going to be very happy when he wakes up.”

The woman was certifiable.

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Since when is that relevant. How about zip ties?”

“We are not tying this guy up,” Shaw insisted. Too dangerous. “You don’t tie somebody like this up unless you plan to never let him go.” She checked the hallway in case there were any other unpleasant surprises before shutting and locking the door. “We’ve got to bring him to, explain you were scared and try to find out why he’s here.” 

“I know why he’s here,” Root said, letting go of his arms and straightening up.

Her long curls were mussed around her face and her cheeks bright with effort, a look Shaw usually saw under much more pleasurable circumstances. She shut those thoughts down, staring at her, waiting for an explanation.

“I thought I threw him off,” she said with a shrug. “But apparently he’s better at this kind of thing than I gave him credit for. He followed me here … because I showed too much interest in his lover.”

“Harold Finch?” Shaw demanded, incredulous.

“Harold Finch, Wren, Larkin. I still don’t know his real name, but he happens to be someone that I’ve been looking for … all my life. Someone who writes computer code like poetry. A visionary, really, who unfortunately chose a dangerous guy to fall in love with. I’m not a threat to Harold, but he probably is.”

Shaw didn’t do strong emotions, they weren’t part of her toolkit. Missing at birth, according to the shrinks. Except anger. 

“You used me.”

“No … and yes. It was a happy coincidence. Honestly. I admit I got overexcited when I realized who it was Ingram hired you to protect.”

She was crazy. Shaw had known it all along and she’d slept with her anyway, convinced she was odd but not dangerous. If they got through this without serious bodily harm she was going to have to seriously rethink her choices.

“Help me get him back to the couch.”

“I think it would be safer if we tie him up.”

“Nobody’s getting tied up,” she insisted.

***

John came to and sat up with a start, getting his feet on the floor, ready to spring into action; a dull thudding pain in his head. He was on a couch in Sameen Shaw’s back office, which he recognized from breaking into the place.

“Easy, big guy,” Shaw’s voice. The two women were facing him from about five feet away, sitting in office chairs he assumed they’d positioned for safe distance.

“You’re partners,” he said. Simultaneously, one said, “Yes,” and the other said, “No.” The one he believed was Shaw, who'd said, no. “Ingram?” he asked.

“That’s over. This idiot,” Shaw said, with a nod in her direction, “is my girlfriend, who has a bad habit of snooping through my files. She has some kind of tech crush on Harold Finch. It’s a hacker thing — I don’t get it. You startled her in the hallway and she reacted.”

“You may care for him, John, but you’re not good enough for him,” Root interjected. If eyes could convey condescension and pity all at once, hers did. “Do you even realize how brilliant he is? I only suspected his existence before I discovered Sameen’s files. I knew there was someone other than Arthur Claypool who did the work on the MIT papers. Claypool’s good, but Harold’s code is … sublime.”

A part of John looked at her delicate neck and thought of how easy it would be to dispatch the threat she represented.

As if she could read his thoughts, Shaw said, “I know you’re pissed. I know you want to protect him, but believe me — she’s a thief, she was using my files to search for easy marks. She’s a pest, and she’s nuts, but she’s no threat to your boy. I hired her as a tech contractor long before I ever heard of Nathan Ingram or Harold Finch.”

Root was definitely not a pro, an assessment that had made him let his guard down in approaching her. There was something about Shaw. The woman struck him as totally devoid of bullshit. He believed her.

“Well, ladies,” he said, rising from the couch. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure.” He fixed his eyes on Root. “Stay away from him.”

“That’s not up to you, Tarzan.”

He heard Shaw’s exaggerated sigh and shot her a sympathetic glance.

“I think you’ll find it is,” John told Root.


	26. Toy Dogs

John hadn’t been sure what to make of the woman who called herself, Root. He’d watched the windows of the O’Connor’s house for a while, getting a close up view through his camera lens. There was a fairly standard spy-cam sitting on a second floor window sill, the kind you could buy at any big name electronics store. He stepped out of the shadows just enough to get caught in its field, to see if there was any reaction. The woman had appeared not long after and put on a charade of looking “at home,” complete with faked yawns.

“I need to follow her,” he told Harold, watching her exit when she thought he was gone. “Stay at Alison’s until you hear from me.” He didn’t want Harold to enter their brownstone until he checked it out. Probably unnecessary, but he wanted to be sure.

“Don’t take any chances, John. I’d rather burn it all down than have something happen to you.” This made John smile, in spite of the anxiety in Harold’s voice.

“I promise, I won’t.” His own worry was under control. This wasn’t good, but he didn’t know what brand of bad it was. No one who worked for the agency would have made the mistakes she had. On the other hand, she was definitely not some friend of a neighbor or house-sitter with an innocent interest in Harold Larkin. He suspected Nathan of hiring a new PI. That was a possibility he wasn’t ready to share with Harold, not sure how he would react.

 

***

Harold stayed at the party until it wound down and he felt awkward. He headed home, arms laden with party favors and food, with gifts.

He was too anxious to consider sleeping even though he was tired. He brewed a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table, making space for himself amid the wrapped plates of Christmas cookies and brownies, bottles of wine and a motley collection of gifts from neighbors. There were two toy dogs with floppy ears and red holiday ribbon collars. Alison had tagged the black and white one “John” and the golden one, “Harold.” They were sitting near his laptop and their button eyes reproached him.

“I know, I know. I wasn’t supposed to come home,” he said to them, starting up his computer.

He’d tried to contact John to let him know he was leaving the party and was annoyed to find his phone turned off.

His screen showed multiple pictures John had sent him of the woman who called herself, Root. Harold studied a close up of her face at the window and mapped the coordinates of her features.

“Who are you?” he asked.

He ran her picture through his security software but didn’t come up with any hits; there was no record of her in range of his surveillance cameras. The name. He’d never gotten a last name, just Samantha … and Root, her disturbing nickname.

She’d been non-specific about her work as well. He started searching, using what he had, which was precious little. He soon became absorbed in the task, patching together a search algorithm targeting tech companies, software firms and tech programs for graduate studies at top universities. All he had was an age range and first name. It produced hundreds of potential matches. He narrowed these using his facial recognition software. His expectations were low, there was no guarantee that even if someone met this search criteria, a photo would be found among public records. It amazed him when he got a direct hit. A former CalTech student. Samantha Groves. She’d left her graduate program in the midst of a hacking scandal almost five years ago.

When Harold looked up from his labors and saw the time, his heart sank. His tea was cold beside him. John had been gone half the night. Then it came to him — a way he could ping John’s phone even though it was turned off. It would at least show him where he was.

When he recognized John’s location, the address of the private investigator, he couldn’t sit still a minute longer. He didn’t know what he could possibly do if John were stuck there, in danger, but he had to do something. Waiting, not knowing what was going on was intolerable.

“I have to find him,” he told the Christmas dogs, shutting the laptop

 

***

The crazy one, John put her in the same category he put Nathan Ingram — could be dangerous in spite of good intentions toward Harold. Shaw, he did trust. There was something solid about her. Neither of them were lying to him, he was as sure of that as it was possible to be. There was nothing to be done about them tonight. He needed to get in touch with Harold, get back to Brooklyn.

The office landline rang as he started toward the door, startling all three of them. John stopped.

Shaw looked at it but didn’t move to answer it.

“The machine will kick on,” she said. Her machine’s voicemail message started; office hours and a terse invitation to leave a name and number … after the beep.

“Hello?” Harold’s soft voice sounded in the room. How had he found him? Shaw picked up the receiver and handed it to him.

“Harold.”

“Oh, thank god. I’m in the hallway.” John was stunned.

“You’re supposed to be at Alison’s.” 

“It’s four in the morning. Did you expect me to invite myself to sleep with her … and you turned off your phone.”

“So how did you … never mind. I’ll let you in.” He hung up the phone and shot a warning glance at Root, whose face had lit up at the sound of Harold’s voice.

John was not happy that Harold had come after him, had no idea how he’d found him. Later he would explain to him how dangerous it was.

He opened the office door and at the sight of him, he forgot his anger. Maybe it was the clothes. Harold Larkin looked so young and earnest in his pea coat and jeans, with a huge knit scarf wound around his neck. John remembered seeing him unwrap it at the party, a gift from one of their neighbors. He’d gotten one that matched it in another color.

His brilliant lover had figured out where he was because … he was brilliant, and he’d come for him because he loved him. And he looked too sweet for words.

He watched Harold take in the sight of the bandage on his forehead. “What happened to you?” He was reaching up and John took him by the wrist.

“It’s nothing,” he told him and kissed his hand. He drew him in and shut the door. Harold stood close, looking now at the women. Shaw was keeping some distance and snagged Root by the arm as she tried to approach, as if she was drawn to Harold by some magnet.

“Samantha … Groves, is it?” Harold said, and John wasn’t sure which amazed him more, Harold finding him or figuring out who their mystery woman was. Her eyes betrayed her surprise at hearing her name spoken.

“I prefer Root, but I’m impressed. I think it’s only fair you share your real name with me.”

“I don’t think so,” he said, his gaze wandering to Shaw. “We haven’t met, though I believe you know my partner, Nathan Ingram. Did he re-instate the investigation?”

“No. This was an unfortunate case of someone looking into files she had no business reading. She’s your … groupie or something. You’re some kind of tech holy grail to her.” John saw Harold’s finely drawn eyebrow lift at that.

“I knew you had to exist,” Root said. “All the evidence pointed to it. I’d know your code anywhere, it’s so elegant. And now I’ve found you.”

Harold stared at her, like she was a puzzle but said nothing.

“The papers Arthur Claypool published at MIT,” Root said. “You were working with him then and later, too. All his best work, it was you.” She tried to take Shaw’s hand off her arm and move closer but John was happy to see Shaw hang on, and Root re-think the move. She stayed back but her eyes were full of yearning. “There are so many things I’d like to ask you.”

“I’m a very … private person,” he said.

“So your guard dog informed me, but I hope you’ll consider the possibilities. Your secrets are safe with me. Please believe that. If you succeeded in discovering my name you no doubt know there’s good reason I don’t use it.”

“I do know,” Harold said, and John was intrigued. It sounded like leverage and that was a very good thing.

“Enough,” John said. “It’s been a long night.”

“I’ll second that,” Shaw said.

***

Having succeeded in reaching John, Harold felt his weariness catching up with him. In the office building’s creaky elevator he sank against his lover’s chest and closed eyes, incredibly happy to feel John’s arms around him.

“You know you shouldn’t have come,” John said. He didn’t sound as angry as Harold had feared he might be. “If I had been in trouble I wouldn’t want you there.”

“I know,” Harold sighed. “Next time, don’t turn off your phone.”

“If you promise to stay put when I ask you to.” Harold didn’t mind the reprimand, punctuated with a kiss on his forehead. “We’re not far from the library if you want to sneak in,” John said.

“No, let’s go home to Brooklyn.” He looked up, to get a kiss for his lips.

They had a mission to complete. So far, he thought, they had been successful, in spite of this latest development. These identities definitely felt more real now. The brownstone beckoned like home. Root would need some attending to, but not tonight. He thought of the little toy dogs that were sitting on the kitchen table, waiting, and silently told them, ‘We’re on our way home.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ending this story here, for now. There could be a sequel down the road bringing all the characters toward a version of the machine.
> 
> I've brought them together and hope I've shown how they will take care of themselves and each other well enough to bid them farewell for the time being.
> 
> Thank you for reading this odd tale of a different version of John and Harold. I really appreciate all the kind support I've gotten along the way!


End file.
